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POEMS 


OF   THE 


WESTERN  LAND. 


B  Y 

ELIZABETH  YATES  RICHMOND. 


"Come  to  me  with  your  triumphs  and  your  woes, 
Ye  forms,  to  life  by  glorious  poets  brought— 

I  sit  alone  with  flowers  and  vernal  boughs 
In  the  deep  shadow  of  a  voiceless  thought ; 

'Midst  the  glad  music  of  the  spring  alone, 

And  sorrowful  for  visions  that  are  gone  ! 

—Mrs.  Hemam*" 


MILWAUKEE: 
PUBLISHED    BY    THE    AUTHOR. 

1878. 


PRINTED  BY 
I.  L.  HAUSER  &  CO. 
Milwaukee,  Wis. 


'  PS 

p£ 


THIS  COLLECTION  OF  POEMS 

IS  DEDICATED, 

GATHERED   AS   MOST   OF  THEM   ARE, 

FROM  THEIR  OWN  LAKES  AND  FORESTS. 

HOPING  THAT  THEY  MAY 

DEEPEN  IN  THEM  A  TRUER  LOVE  AND  VENERATION 

FOR  THE  WEIRD  LEGENDS 

AND  HISTORICAL  ANTIQUITIES  OF  THEIR 

OWN  NATIVE  STATE,  WHOSE  CHRONICLERS 

ABE  FAST  FADING  AWAY  WITH 

THE   CHILDREN   OF   THE   SOIL. 


M2G4583 


CONTENTS. 


,  PAGE. 

HOPEKAH, II 

RUNES  FROM  THE  FOREST. 

The  Sachem's  Ghost, 75 

Great  Michigan  and  Her  Citadels, 81 

Buried  in  his  War-Plumes, 84 

Old  Yellow  Thunder's  Ride, 87 

The  Gathering  of  the  Sachems, 92 

Wisconsin's  First  Legislature, 97 

The  Old  Northwestern  Braves, 100 

Sons  of  the  Sachems, 102 

Lords  of  the  Wilderness, 104 

The  Pre-Historic  Graves, 105 

Treasure  Cities  of  the  West, 106 

The  Ships  of  Astor, 108 

Spare  Ye  the  Forest  Trees, no 

The  Old  Pioneers, in 

Winter  on  the  Fox  River, 113 

BATTLE  DAYS. 

Missing, 117 

Starved  in  His  Cell, 119 

The  Return  of  the  Old  Battle  Flags,     .     .     .     .  120 

Dirge  of  the  Year  1865, 121 

Uncrowned  Heroes  of  the  Century, 123 

Our  Peace-Offering 125 


iv  CONTENTS. 

Unsceptered, .  128' 

Peace, *3° 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Along  the  Mississippi, 133 

Scorched  in  the  Tunnel, 137 

Lost  on  the  Reefs, 141 

The  Arctic  Mariners, 144 

The  Watcher  of  the  Icebergs,     ........  146 

Inaugurated, 149 

A  Man  of  Mark, 15° 

Only  a  Common  Man,      .     .     .     .     .     .    ..     .     .     .  1 5 2 

Sweet  Edith  Leigh, 154 

The  Old  Miner's  Tale, 159 

A  Day  of  Days, 166 

Hallelujah  on  the  Himalayas, 169 

At  Half-Mast, *72 

In  the  Wilderness, i74 

Michael  Angelo's  Last  Work, 176 

The  Old -Time  Minstrels, 178 

Sleeping, *79 

The  Witches  are  Walking  the  Wild-Woods  Again,  i  80 

Sundered, .     .  182 

Beneath  the  Elms, *&2 

Down  Where  the  Water  Lilies  Grow,     ....  184 

When  the  Summer  Comes  Again, 185 

My  Household  Choir,     .     .     , l8^ 

That  Cottage  'Mong  the  Cedars, 188 

Harps  of  Home, l89 

Will  the  Summer  Come  ? 19° 

Travel- Worn, J9L 


HOPEKAH, 

THE  WINNEBAGO  PRINCESS. 


PREFACE. 

That  our  own  beautiful  state  might  produce,  at 
the  touch  of  the  magician's  wand,  romances  and  heroic 
tales,  weird  and  uncanny  as  any  told  by  Scandinavian 
scald,  or  Highland  minstrel,  who  can  doubt  ? 

The  wild  tribes  we  have  swept  out  before  us, 
whose  snow-shoes  have  long  since  disappeared  beyond 
the  mountains,  have  left  us  to  gather  their  chronicles 
and  legends  as  best  we  may,  from  the  archives  of  the 
forest,  or  the  sarcophagus  by  the  torrent. 

And  though  their  folios  have  been  entrusted  to  the 
limestone  boulders,  and  their  manuscripts  to  the 
autumn  leaves  that  the  December  hurricanes  have 
swept  into  the  great  lakes,  still  we  stumble  upon  frag- 
ments now  and  then  that  marshal  before  us  Chief  and 
Sachem  in  their  bravery,  with  all  the  love  and  hate 
of  those  elder  days. 

Such  is  the  story  of  the  Winnebago  Princess, 
whose  home  stood  upon  the  shores  of  the  beautiful 
lake,  more  than  one  hundred  years  ago,  (probably  on 


viii  PREFACE. 

what  is  now  called  "The  Island,"  on  which  stands  part 
of  the  city  of  Neenah),  in  northern  Wisconsin. 

Here  stands  yet,  in  the  unscathed  vigor  of  centu- 
ries, the  ancient  "Council  Tree,"  "planted  by  the  rivers 
of  waters,"  whose  leaf  has  not  withered,  though  gen- 
eration after  generation  have  passed  from  under  it. 

Across  the  lake,  on  the  eastern  shore,  is  the  line  of 
cliffs,  standing  like  walls  of  olden  castles,  and  formerly 
used  as  hiding-places  for  the  warriors. 

Beyond,  on  the  western  shore,  is  the  historical 
"Hill  of  the  Dead,"  where  French,  Sacs  and  Foxes 
fell  in  deadly  combat,  through  which  our  civilized 
vandals  have  recently  laid  the  track  for  one  of  their 
railroads. 

The  whole  of  the  picturesque  lake-shore  is  full  of 
wild  romance  and  weird  story,  that  only  awaits  the 
pen  of  a  Walter  Scott  to  bring  it  out. 

On  these  broad  shores  dwelt  the  Winnebago 
Queen,  Ho-po-ho-e-kau,  or  Hopekah,  (Glory  of  the 
Morning.)  Here,  according  to  Carver  and  Gale,  she 
was  born,  and  here  she  died.  Here  she  entertained 
the  traders  who  wandered  to  those  far-away  shores; 


PREFA  CE.  ix 

led  her  councils,  and  advised  her  warriors,  then 
numerous  and  strong.  Here  she  married  the  French 
Captain,  De  Kaury,  who  was  afterwards  shot  at  the 
siege  of  Quebec,  when  Gen.  Wolfe  fell  before  the 
"Heights  of  Abraham." 

Of  her  grave  and  last  res1  ing-place  the  winds  tell 
us  not.    We  only  know  that  her  sons,  and  sons'  sons, 
or  several  generations  succeeded  her  in  the  chieftain- 
ship ;  but  her  people,  and  the  gnarled  old  cedars  that 
sheltered  them, — where  are  they  ? 

E.  Y.  R. 

Riverside  Cottage,  Appleton,  Wis.,  Sept.  7. 1878. 


:f>  O  E3  IsA.  s 
—OF  THE— 


WESTERN    LAND 


HOPEKAH, 

THE  WINNEBAGO  PRINCESS. 

Where  the  blue-waved  Winnebago 
Sat  among  her  fringe  of  forests, 
Chorusing  adown  the  ages 

Anthems  of  that  elder  time — 
While  upon  her  purple  border, 
Purple  with  the  mists  of  autumn, 
Stood  the  cedars  in  their  glory, 

Stood  the  hemlock  and  the  pine; 
And  the  oaks,  with  tarnished  helmets, 
And  the  elms,  with  cloaks  of  gold, 
Bowing  low  like  reverent  courtiers 

To  the  wild  lake  as  it  rolled, — 


12  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Rolled  in  turbulence,  or  silence, 
With  its  voices  manifold. 

There  the  red  sun  of  September, 
Climbing  wearily  the  ramparts 
Of  the  heavens,  that  sultry  evening, 

Like  a  heated  troubadour 
Breathless  from  the  fight  and  foray, 
With  his  scarlet  mantle  flying 

To  the  windward,  as  he  tore 
O'er  the  forests  and  the  prairies, 
O'er  the  cliff  and  o'er  the  marshes, 

To  old  Winnebago's  shore; 
There  he  dipped  his  molten  sandals, 
Tossed  his  red  cloak  on  the  waters, 
Dashed  with  spray  his  heated  forehead — 
Till  the  forest  laughed  and  reveled 

At  the  garish  robes  they  wore 
At  the  burnished  scarfs  of  scarlet 

Flung  o'er  larch  and  sycamore. 

And  the  smoky  heavens  above  him 
Open  swung  their  western  portal — 
Swung  upon  their  golden  hinges 

Widely  their  unbolted  gate ; 
And  through  battlements  of  cloudland — 
Through  those  dim,  mysterious  regions, 

Where  the  patient  planets  wait, 


HOPEKAH.  13 

1 

Passed  the  flbt  and  breathless  racer, 
Up  the  war-trail  of  the  Sachems; 

And  the  woods,  disconsolate, 
Saw  their  fading  glories  perish, 
Hung  their  mournful  heads  in  silence, 

Erst  with  glory  all  elate. 

In  her  wigwam  by  the  lakeshore 
Watched  the  Indian  maid  Hopekah — 
Watched  the  light  canoes,  that  flitting 

Laden  past  her  lodge  of  bark, 
Many  a  tired  and  weary  warrior, 
With  his  skins  of  deer  and  panther, 

Homeward  bore,  before  the  dark. 
Till  upon  the  sand-beach  bounding, 
Stood  a  brown  and  stalwart  chieftain, 

Freighted  with  the  forest  spoils; 
Heavy  round  his  neck  the  wampum, 
Heavy  hung  his  brow  with  feathers 

Plucked  from  many  a  distant  isle; 
And  his  step  was  bold  and  fearless 
As  the  monarch  of  the  desert, 
While  he  sought  his  birchen  wigwam 

Where  the  maiden  sat  the  while — 
Sat  and  welcomed  from  his  hunting 

Thus  her  sire,  with  song  and  smile, — 

"The  eagle  has  fled  to  her  eyrie  beyond, 
And  the  loon  to  her  bed  'mong  the  reeds ; 


i4  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

And  the  young  fawns  moan  in  the^fc^est  alone 
Where  their  panting  mother  bleeds. 

And  the  fledgelings  call  from  their  home  in  the  sedge 

By  the  side  of  the  reedy  lake, 
For  the  blue-winged  heron  that  comes  not  back 

Through  the  tangled  brush  and  brake. 

And  the  wild  dove  so  softly  coos  to  her  young, 

Beyond  in  the  forest  afar; 
Come  again  to  thy  lodge,  my  warrior  sire, 

By  the  light  of  the  shooting  star. 

All  day  I  have  watched  where  the  torch  of  the  braves 

The  slumbering  forests  fired, 
Till  my  brow  grew  hot  'neath  its  band  of  beads, 

And  my  cheek  grew  flushed  and  tired. 

I  have  beaded  thy  pouch,  I  have  tinted  thy  bow: 

Thy  mat  'neath  the  vines  is  unrolled; 
So  welcome  thee  back  to  thy  lodge  by  the  lake, 

My  warrior  Sachem  bold." 

O'er  the  Sachem's  swarthy  visage 
Crept  awhile  the  softening  shadows, 
And  the  mouth,  so  stern  and  rigid, 
Grew  as  tender  as  a  woman's 

When  a  babe  looks  in  her  face; 
And  upon  the  maiden's  shoulder — 


HOPEKAH. 

Brown,  but  round  and  classic-moulded — 
Smiling  flung  the  strings  of  wampum, 

And  the  trophies  of  the  chase; 
Feathers  dipped  in  gold  and  carmine : 
Wing  of  teal  and  plume  of  heron; 
Purpling  clusters  of  the  autumn, 

From  the  vines  that  interlace 
All  the  hunter's  tangled  pathway- 
Through  the  fern  and  sassafras. 

Precious  was  this  child  unto  him: 
Daughter  of  his  dead  Nehotah, 
Whose  lone  grave  among  the  grasses 

Many  an  autumn's  moon  had  kissed ; 
Many  a  winter's  snow  had  fallen, 
Many  a  spring-time's  flowers  had  blossomed 

Since  beyond  him,  through  the  mist, 
On  a  summer  cloud  she  vanished, — 
Vanished  like  an  uncaged  oriole 

Up  the  paths  of  amethyst. 

Vanished  through  the  twilight  shadow — 
Through  the  interminable  footpaths 

Eye  nor  ken  have  ever  guessed, 
Where  the  misty  spirit-lodges 

Stud  the  far  fields  of  the  West; 
Leaving  among  the  mats  of  rushes, 


r5 


1 6    POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Deft  and  curiously  enwoven, 

One  small  fledgeling  in  her  nest. 

Strange  that  this  dark-visaged  chieftain, 
With  his  panther-skin  about  him, 
And  his  brow  with  eagle's  feathers 

And  with  painted  plumes  bedight, 
Turned  so  oft  to  gaze  unnoticed 
On  the  little  waif  that  slumbered 
Softly  in  its  birch-bark  cradle, 

Through  the  day  and  through  the  night ; 
Yet  unto  the  lake-shore  Sachem 

That  imperious,  dusky  wight, 
Centered  all  the  blood  of  warriors 
Through  the  rushing  ages  mingling; 

Thus,  by  fate's  strange  oversight, 
Mingling  in  this  tiny  maiden, 
Frail  and  fair,  and  slightly  fashioned — 
Heir  of  stalwart  forest  princes, 
Who,  though  fit  for  fight  nor  foray, 
For  the  war-path  or  the  battle, 
Still  might  wear  her  father's  wampum 

Proudly  as  a  belted  knight. 

So  she  slept,  and  grew  and  flourished, 
And  the  summers  and  the  winters 

Passed  uncounted  o'er  her  head; 
And  the  ancient  squaw  that  watched  her 


HOPEKAH.  17 

"Glory  of  the  Morning"  called  her: 

Decked  her  well  with  fringe  and  bead — 

Twined  her  raven  tress  with  vine-wreaths, 
Or  with  bitter  sweet  instead, 

Till  its  orange  berries  circled, 

Peerless  as  the  the  pearls  of  countess, 
Her  brown  brow  unbonneted. 

Never  fear  nor  danger  awed  her, 
For  the  smothered  blood  of  heroes 

Sex,  nor  age,  nor  form  can  stay; 
Wandered  she  the  pathless  forests, 
Climbed  unhelped  the  rugged  cliff-tops, 

All  in  her  wild  disarray; 
Learned  to  shoot  her  father's  arrows; 
Scaled  the  tall  perch  of  the  eagle, 
Cooing  softly  to  the  eaglets, 
Pressing  them  upon  her  bosom — 

Daring  not  to  bear  away 
From  the  lonely  absent  mother 

Foraging  for  fish  or  prey, 
One  soft  downy  half-fledged  nestling, 
Lest  the  homeward  bird  returning 

Flutter  with  a  strange  dismay. 

Deft  was  she,  and  fairy-fingered ; 

And  through  stormy  wintry  moons, 
When  the  tempest  howled,  and  reveled, 


i8         POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Chanting  past  some  weirdish  rune, 
By  the  wigwam  firelight  sat  she 
With  her  beads,  and  painted;  grasses, 
Broidering  cunningly  her  vestments, 

Kirtles  gay,  and  dainty  shoon, 
Jackets  for  the  chief,  her  father, 

Quaintly  as  from  ancient, loom; 
All  the  while  she  sat  and  broidered, 
Chorusing  the  old  lake's  dirges 

With  some  half-forgotten  tune. 

One  bright  morn  the  hunters'  echoes, 
Long,  and  loud,  and  far  resounding, 

Swept  across  the  breezy  lake; 
And  as  start  the  wild  Bedouins 
From  their  unsuspected  coverts, 

Yak  or  ghau  to  overtake ; 
So  that  elfish  horde  of  hunters, 
Supple-limbed,  and  strong  and  stalwart, 

All  their  painted  plumage  shake, 
Crowd  the  arrows  in  their  pouches, 
Whet  their  knives  upon  the  flint-stones— 

And  the  sleeping  forests  wake, 
Till  the  snow-enshrouded  cedars 

To  their  topmost  branches  quake. 

Springing  from  his  bed  of  rushes 
Bounded  forth  the  lake-shore  Sachem, 


HOPEKAH.  19 

And  his  heavy  wolf-skin  jacket 

O'er  his  massive  shoulders  flung: 
And  his  elfish  locks  of  midnight, 
Blacker  than  the  the  condor's  plumage, 

Round  his  dusky  forehead  clung; 
And  his  broidered  pouch  of  arrows 

O'er  his  stately  neck  he  slung, 
While  his  polished  hatchet,  glistening, 

Down  upon  the  hearth-stone  rung. 

All  the  lights  and  shadows  flickered 
For  a  moment,  quick  and  transient, 
On  the  brow  of  fair  Hopekah, 

As  the  gorgeous  cavalcade 
Flitted  past  her  father's  door-way, 
O'er  the  icy  lake  that  morning 

In  their  brilliant  masquerade ; 
And  with  eyes  all  dark  and  glowing, 

Gazing  at  the  weird  brigade, 
Thus  the  winsome  forest  beauty, 

Pleading  to  her  father,  said, — 

"Let  me  go,  let  me  go!  where  the  forests  a-shiver 

Their  icicles  shake  o'er  the  desolate  river; 

Where  the  panther  screams  down  from  his  nest  'mong 

the  fir, 
And  the  hemlocks  their  boughs  to  the  wintry  winds 

stir. 


2o  POEMS  OJF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Let  me  go  where  the   black   bear  hath  chosen   to 

slumber, 
Among   the  cavernous  rocks  of  the   grey  cliff-tops 

yonder ; 
Where  the  antelope  bounds  and  the  wa-wa  is  calling; 
And  the  long-bearded  moss  from  the  cedars  is  falling. 

Let  me  clamber  the  rocks!  let  me  carry  thy  quiver! 
And  my  snow-shoes  shall  bound  o'er  the  broad  frozen 

river; 
And  my  arrow  shall  speed  through  the  grim  woods 

unerring, 
And  my  step  o'er  the  crags  shall  climb  free  and  un- 

fearing." 

The  Sachem,  with  his  belt  unbuckled, 
Listened  proudly  to  his  daughter; 
Watched  her  firm  heroic  features, 

Fired  with  daring  of  her  race. 
All  the  courage  of  her  fathers, 
Whom  the  mosses  long  had  covered, 

Slept  unquestioned  in  that  face ; 
While  her  woman's  nature  lent  her 

All  the  spells  of  softer  grace. 

"Hie  thee,  then,  my  daughter,"  quoth  he; 
"Wrap  thy  warm  blue-bordered  blanket 
Closely  round  thy  slender  shoulders; 


HOPEKAH.  21 

And  about  thy  raven  hair 
Bind  thy  scarf  of  scarlet  closely: 
Fasten  well  thy  beaded  buskins; 
And  my  crest  of  heron's  feathers 

Thou  upon  thy  brow  shalt  wear. 
Haste,  my  dauntless  mountaineer, 
For  already  gleam  the  hatchets 

In  the  forest  paths  afar." 

All  that  day  was  fair  and  golden 

On  the  shores  of  Winnebago; 

And  the  winds  just  stopped  to  whisper 

Where,  aloof  from  shot  and  targe, 
Sleeping  in  the  lonely  cloisters 

Of  the  lake-shore's  utmost  verge, 
Lay  the  grey  wolf  and  the  panther, 

In  some  grim  embattled  gorge ; 
While  along  the  winding  war-trails 
Stealthy  ranks  of  weird  banditti 

From  the  snow-wreathed  woods  emerge; 
And  the  torches  lit  the  hill-tops ; 
And  the  hunter's  broad  knives  glistened 

Like  new  sword-blades  from  the  forge. 

Perched  upon  the  walls  of  limestone  * 
By  some  vanished  ocean  left  us, — 

*  The  Clifton  Heights  on  the  east  shore  of  Lake  Winne- 
bago, one  of  the  most  romantic  nooks  in  Wisconsin. 


22 


POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Some  broad  sea,  that  fast  receding, 

Left  its  solid  ramparts  yet, 
Though  the  waves  that  thundered  round  it 
By  the  rushing  centuries  silenced, 

Long  have  ceased  to  roar  and  fret — 
There  upon  those  cliff-tops  circling, 
Round  their  hunter's  fire  assembling 

Chief  and  brave  their  ruth  forget; 
And  the  hunting-song  floats  downward 

O'er  that  rocky  parapet,— 

"Spirit  of  the  lordly  hunters 

Sleeping  on  through  shine  and  storm, 
Come  and  point  our  painted  arrows, 
Bend  our  bow,  and  nerve  our  arm; 
Show  us  where  the  panther  wrestles, 
Show  us  where  the  white  swan  nestles, 

Where  the  blue-winged  wild-ducks  swarm. 

Spirit  of  the  ancient  hunters, 

Point  to  us  the  sleeping  bear; 

Lay  your  silent  finger  on  him 

As  he  slumbers  in  his  cavern — 

In  his  cavern  grim  and  drear; 

Show  us  where  the  the  tall  elk  passes 

O'er  the  brake  and  withered  grasses; 

Where  the  conies  disappear. 


HOPEKAH.  23 

Wake  again,  O  buried  Sachems! 
Wait  we  till  your  steeds  again 
Down  the  pathway  of  the  Westland 
Cleave  the  startled  clouds  in  twain ; 
And  unto  your  olden  places, 
With  the  war-paint  on  your  faces, 

Lead  with  daring  strides  our  van." 

So,  adown  the  cliffs  resounding, 

Swelled  the  song,  and  flared  the  pine-boughs, 

Waking  in  the  speechless  forests 

Long  redoubled  semibreves; 
Sending  tremorous  notes  of  terror 
Through  the  undiscovered  chancels 

Of  those  ghostly  spirit-caves, 
Till  they  rocked  from  base  to  center, 

And  their  rocky  architraves 
Quaked  in  mingled  fear  and  wonder 

At  the  chorus  of  the  braves. 

Suddenly,"  a  deer  espying, 
Bounding  past  them  from  its  covert, 
With  its  lordly  horns  uplifted 

In  a  frightened  escapade, 
Down  the  cliff-sides  dashed  the  cohorts — 
Over  limestone  ledge  and  bastion, 

Mossy  niche  and  colonnade, 
Swinging  from  the  hanging  tree-trunks 


34  POExMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Which  their  onward  course  delayed — 
Down  upon  the  rushing  courser, 
Tangled  by  his  branching  antlers 
In  the  hidden  ambuscade. 

All  that  day  in  short  December, — 
With  the  transient  sun  out-riding 

Like  a  heated  cavalier, — 
Tore  they  over  hill  and  valley, 
Through  the  fen  and  through  the  fastness ; 

Clambering  over  crag  and  scar, 
Till  the  day  wore  to  its  closing, 
And  the  western  archways  opening, 

Crimson  curtains  seemed  to  wear. 

Never  heard  old  Winnebago 
O'er  her  ice- environed  waters 

Such  a  noisy  roundelay; 
Never  held  upon  her  bosom, 
Sheathed  and  mailed  in  solid  crystal, 

Such  a  gallant  holiday; 
Never  counted  'mong  her  courtiers 

Such  a  marvelous  array, 
As  when  brave,  and  chief,  and  warrior, 
Round  their  hunting  feast-fire  gathering, 

Brought  their  trophies  of  the  fray. 

All  the  board  with  royal  rations, 
Fit  for  Sheik  or  Sultan,  laden, 


HOPEKAH.  25 

And  with  dishes  multiform, 
Spread  in  wild  barbaric  bounty, 

Gartered  Knight  nor  Khan  need  scorn; 
And  athwart  the  shadows  creeping, 
Scaring  weendigoes  and  demons, 

Clearly  blew  the  hunting-horn; 

That  loud  blast  that  far  resounding 

O'er  the  hill-side  and  the  slope, 
Gathered  many  a  recreant  hunter 
Straying  'mong  the  brush  and  tangles, 
And  with  heavy  booty  laden 

Peering  from  the  cliffs  a-top. 

With  deliberate  step,  and  stately, 
Strolled  the  Sachem  of  the  Lakeside, 
And  his  daughter,  fair  Hopekah, 

Gazing  on  the  motley  troop ; 
He,  with  hides  and  antlers  laden; 
She,  with  birds  of  gaudy  plumage — 
While  among  her  dark  hair  twisted, 

Golden  berries  twine  and  group, 
And  about  her  cheek  of  carmine 

In  their  tangled  clusters  droop. 

By  their  side  a  stranger  hunter, 
With  his  gun  and  flask  of  powder — 
Who,  in  search  of  hides  and  peltries, 


26  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

By  some  fortunate  mischance, 
Straying  from  his  mates  that  morning, 

O'er  the  forest's  broad  expanse, — 
Came  upon  the  dark-eyed  huntress, 

Watching  in  her  vigilance 
O'er  a  dea  of  captured  foxes, 
*      Peeping  from  their  cells  of  limestone, 

With  their  sharp  eyes  all  askance. 

Filled  his  face  with  admiration 
As  this  daughter  of  the  Sachems, 
This  untrammeled  scion  of  princes, 

Met  his  dark  eye  with  her  own ; 
In  her  broidered  shoon  and  kirtle, 
And  her  crest  of  golden  berries  j 

Twisted  like  an  elfish  crown ' 
Round  her  heavy  braids  all  glossy, 
Round  her  tresses  backward  thrown, 
Somewhat  tangled  by  the  breezes 

That  across  the  lake  had  blown. 

Never  valiant  crusader, 
Riveted  to  Moorish  turret 

By  some  witch  in  maiden's  guise, 
Paused  amid  his  clanking  armor, 

Taken  by  such  sweet  surprise 
As  that  stranger  knight  that  morning, 


HOPEKAH.  n 

Speaking  with  a  stranger  accent — 

Waiting  only  strange  replies 
From  this  naiad  of  the  westland, 
Who  her  rustic  court  was  holding 

On  the  mossy  precipice. 

Bold  and  fearless  looked  this  stranger, 
With  an  air  that  well  betokened 

Courtly  grace  and  noble  guild; 
Dressed  in  coat  of  shaggy  bear-skin 
Pillaged  from  the  coastland  mountains, 
While  the  sash  and  stars  he  carried 

Told  of  trophies  in  the  field. 

Flinging  from  him  sash  and  sabre, 
Darted  down  the  agile  hunter, 

Down  the  rocks,  precipitate; 
While  upon  her  rugged  outpost, 

Cheeks  aflush  and  eyes  dilate, 
Sat  the  still,  astonished  huntress ; 
Watched  his  disappearing  footsteps 
Down  the  dank  and  slippery  passage, 

Down  the  pathway  steep  and  straight. 

Once  or  twice  his  flint-lock  echoed 
O'er  those  pre-historic  ramparts ; 

Then,  with  forehead  all  be-dew, 
With  a  gracious  smile,  and  knightly, 


23  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Down  his  bushy  freight  of  foxes 
At  the  maiden's  feet  he  threw ; 

Just  as  backward  from  their  marches 
Filed  the  Sachem's  retinue. 

As  around  life's  camp-fires  lonely, 
Or  in  unaccustomed  places 

'Mid  the  desert  solitude, 
Many  a  brave  meets  brave  unquestioned; 
Many  a  hand  in  loyal  homage — 

Spanning  space  and  latitude, 
Gives  the  generous  clasp  of  brother, 

Scorns  the  barrier  tint  of  blood, — 
So  those  two  wide-severed  chieftains, 
From  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset, 
Looked  i'nto  each  other's  faces 

"With  a  quick  solicitude; 
Read  the  untranslated  message 

Each  unto  the  other  showed; 
And  among  those  rocky  ramparts 
And  interminable  forests, 

Hid  forever  ruth  and  feud. 

'Mong  that  horde  of  hungry  hunters 
Gleamed  the  stranger's  stars  that  evening; 
Told  he  of  his  hunts  and  marches,     \ 
Of  the  country  of  his  people 

O'er  the  mighty  land-locked  seas; 


HOPEKAH.  29 

How  their  great  ships  plowed  the  waters, 
How  their  cities  strewed  the  coastland, 

Watched  by  frowning  batteries; 
Of  their  great  French  Father's  message 
Sent  them  from  his  distant  castles ; 
Of  the  ships  that,  overladen, 

Sped  to  them  upon  the  breeze, 
Freighted  well  with  guns  and  blankets, 
Scarlet  cloth  and  polished  hatchets, 

Piled  on  stately  argosies.* 

Listened  they  with  eyes  all  eager 
To  the  pale-faced  captain's  story, 
Told  them  in  their  native  jargon 

By  a  sage  who  conn'd  their  speech; 
Listened  as  the  rock-bound  seaman 

Listens  o'er  the  surge-swept  beach 
To  the  great  world's  distant  murmurs, — 

Pausing  ever  to  beseech 
Of  the  winds  that  whistle  by  him 
Through  th'  untraversable  pathways 

Voice,  or  message  back  to  fetch. 

From  his  belt  the  lake-shore  Sachem 
Silent  drew  his  red-stone  peace-pipe; 


*  The  vessels  of  John  Jacob  Astor  and  others  sent  by  the 
French  government. 


30    POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Silent  lit  it  in  the  embers, 

Blew  a  whiff  toward  the  West, 

Watched  it  vanish  into  darkness, — 

Then  the  calumet  relighting, 

Turned  and  passed  it  to  his  guest: 

And  while  upward  curled  the  vapor 
Thus  his  confidence  expressed, — 

"Brother  from  the  distant  sunrise, 
From  beyond  the  great  sea-water, 
Stay  thou  here  among  our  lodges : 

Spread  thy  mat  beside  our  door, 
'Mong  the  coves  of  flags  and  rushes 

Leave  thy  bark  and  painted  oar. 
Till  aloud  the  Great  far  Spirit 
Calls  to  thee  across  the  mountains, — 
Calls  thee  back  beyond  the  ledges 

Where  the  thundering  cataracts  roar;* 
Where  thy  fathers'  graves  lie  scattered 

'Neath  the  oak  and  sycamore." 

Thus  it  was  that  by  the  camp-fires 
Of  the  Winnebago  warriors 
Sat  the  captain,  bold  De  Kaury, 

Through  the  wild  and  wintry  moons ; 
Sat  beneath  the  antlered  doorway, 

*  Niagara. 


HOPEKAH.  31 

Sat  beneath  the  painted  curtains, 

Through  those  frosty  afternoons, — 

Listening  while  the  whirlwind  whistled 

Through  the  unhabitable  forests, 
Telling  o'er  his  doleful  runes. 

Loud  and  noisy  swept  the  snow-blast: 
Fierce  and  cold  the  bleak  northwester, 
Just  uncaged  from  icy  caverns 

O'er  the  compassless  expanse 
Of  the  great  seas,  stretching  northward — 
Whose  wild  wave  had  rolled  in  silence 
Since  the  hemisphere  was  cradled, 
With  no  prow  or  keel  to  measure 

Its  supreme  circumference. 

Through  the  Sachem's  lonely  causeway 
Snorted  loud  the  great  frost-dragon, 
With  his  huge  paws  tossing  upward 

Towering  pyramids  of  snow; 
Obelisks  that  glared  and  glistened 
In  that  deathly  wintry  midnight 
Like  a  crew  of  sheeted  specters, 

Wading  those  dark  cedars  through; 
And  beneath  his  white  embankments 
Lay  and  slumbered  many  a  wigwam, 

In  the  solitude  below, — 
Slumbered  like  the  storied  cities 


32  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

'Neath  the  sand-drifts  of  the  cycles, 
Sepulchered  so  long  ago. 

But  upon  her  mat  of  rushes, 
In  her  warm  blue-bordered  blanket, 
Broidering  still  her  beaded  pouches, 
Sat  she  there — the  fair  Hopekah, 

Through  those  dismal  wintry  days, 
Sat  upon  her  couch  of  marsh-grass, 
While  the  pine-boughs  flashed  and  flickered; 
And  beside  her  sat  the  stranger 

With  his  rapt  admiring  gaze, — 
Wondering  if  so  fair  Sultana 
Sat  on  velvet  mat  of  princes, 

'Neath  their  gilded  canopies. 

Patiently,  from  pictured  pages 
Taught  he  to  the  lake-side  maiden 
All  his  country's  lore  and  language; 

Taught  her  oi  his  faith  and  creed, 
Of  the  prowess  of  his  people, 
Of  their  palaces  of  splendor, 
Of  their  forts,  that  o'er  the  waters 

Opened  loud  their  cannonade. 

She,  the  while,  with  wondering  glances, 
And  with  keen  perception  soaring 

To  the  boundary  of  his  thought, — 


HOPEKAH.  33 

From  his  word,  his  glance,  his  gesture, 

Quick  his  inspiration  caught. 
Thus,  ere  well  she  conned  the  chapters 
From  those  quaint,  mysterious  pages, 
To  her  passionate  soul  receptive 

Love's  great  lesson  he  had  taught; 
And  his  piercing  eye  grew  softer, 

With  a  tenderer  impulse  fraught, 
And  her  cheeks,  like  autumn  russets, 
Glowed  with  deeper  tints  of  carmine 

Than  the  blazing  pine-boughs  wrought. 

Strange,  that  this  self-banished  captain, 
Wandering  westward  for  adventure 

From  his  home  across  the  gulf- 
Seeking  in  the  tangled  war-paths 
Of  the  "Great  French  Father's"  borders 

Avenues  for  trade  or  pelf, 
Thus  should  capture  in  her  fortress 

Unbesieged,  this  forest  elf, 
On  whose  mat  both  brave  and  sachem 
Vainly  tossed  their  plumes  and  wampum; 
Vainly  tuned  their  pipes  of  reed-stems, 
Pouring  out  lost  adorations 

To  the  wayward  Indian  sylph. 

Strange,  and  unexplained  the  riddle — 
Yet  the  old  chief  from  his  corner, 


34         POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

From  beneath  his  shaggy  eye-brows 

Read  the  puzzle  through  and  through; 
Smiling  quaintly  as  he  read  it, 

Caring  not  to  disallow 
To  this  petted  waif  of  chieftains, 

Love's  impulsive  overflow. 
So  the  twain  conned  on  their  lessons, 

Through  the  shine  and  through  the  snow; 
And  the  January  tempests 

Through  the  birchen  roof  that  blew, 
Heard  amid  their  fitful  pauses 

Many  a  whispered  interview. 

Thus  it  was  that  when  the  black-wing, 
Gathering  all  her  noisy  cohorts, 

Chattered  in  the  coves  beyond, 
Of  the  great  bergs  drifting  northward 
To  the  land  of  snow  and  shadow, 
Where  the  eider-duck  was  sailing 

In  the  solitude  profound — 

That  the  two  clasped  hands  together, 
Standing  on  the  mat  of  wolf-skin 

'Neath  the  rustic  wigwam  porch, 
While  beneath  them  roared  the  waters, 
Breaking  up  their  icy  barriers ; 
And  above  them,  flared  the  flambeau 

And  the  blazing  tamarack  torch — 


HOPEKAH.  35 

Glinting  on  the  ranks  of  warriors 
In  their  scarlet  blankets  mantled, 

Waiting  'neath  the  cedar's  arch. 

All  night  long  the  ancient  Father  * 
Far  and  patiently  had  ridden, 

With  his  dusky-visaged  guide, 
Thus  to  clasp  their  hands  together 
In  his  church's  olden  fashion, 

As  they  stood  there  side  by  side, — 
She,  the  Great  far  Spirit's  daughter, 
He,  at  Christian  altars  bending; 
Thus  in  vows  of  love  united, 

By  his  blessing  ratified. 

And  the  old  lake  roared  compliance — 
Woke  her  slumbering  orchestra: 

Thundered  forth  a  marriage  hymn; 
While  upon  her  shores  more  softly, 
From  beneath  their  braided  tresses 

Broke  the  Indian  maids'  refrain, — 

"Wilt  thou  go,  wilt  thou  go, 
From  the  Sachem's  door? 


*  Father  Claude  Allouez,  who   established   missions    at 
Green  Bay  and  other  points  along  the  Fox  river. 


36  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND, 

Wilt  thou  tie  thy  skiff 

'Mong   the  sedge  no  more? 

Wilt  thou  sit  on  the  mat 
Of  this  pale-faced  brave, 

Where  the  moons  roll  on 
By  a  stranger  wave? 

Wilt  thou  roam  no  more 
Where  the  eaglets  sleep? 

Where  the  painted  doves 

Through  the  green  woods  sweep? 

Where  the  sun-fish  leaps 

To  the  pebbly  strand, 
And  the  white  swan  feeds 

From  thy  dainty  hand? 

In  the  long  dark  moons 

Thy  lonely  sire 
Will  wait  for  thee 

By  the  wigwam  fire. 

And  who  shall  sing  him 

The  olden  song 
As  lonely  he  wanders 

The  cliffs  among?" 


HOPRKAH.  37 

This  the  song  whose  mournful  cadence 
Rolled  along  the  sandy  beaches — 
Murmured  through  the  stricken  forests, 

Through  the  yet  unblossoming  wood; 
While  in  solemn  diapasons 

Came  the  sad  lake's  interlude, 
Waking  with  its  incantations 

All  that  solemn  solitude. 

How  the  feast  was  spread  that  evening 
'Neath  th'  entanglement  of  grape-vines, 
Ask  the  grim  ancestral  oak  trees — 

Nursed  and  cradled  by  the  wave, 
Ask  the  moss-enshrouded  beeches, 
That  unto  the  Sachem's  daughter 

Parting  benedictions  gave, — 
Those  lone  watchmen  of  the  forest, 
Sworn  through  long  centennial  ages 

Storm  and  whirlwind  to  outbrave. 

Down  their  war-trails,  through  the  forest, 
In  their  buskins  came  the  chieftains; 
Came  the  chieftains  on  their  mustangs, 

Bidden  to  the  marriage  feast; 
Each  with  belt,  and  bow,  and  wampum, 
And  with  crest  of  painted  plumage, 

For  the  regal  banquet  dressed. 


3*  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Came  the  lordly  Yellow  Thunder, 
From  his  lodge  among  the  sumachs; 
Came  the  Grey  Wolf  from  his  prowling 

Down  along  the  tamarack  slope; 
Came  with  snowy  tufts  of  feathers 
O'er  his  bleaching  scalp-locks  falling, 
Old  White  Eagle,  from  his  perches, 

Where  he  watched  the  antelope; 
While  the  Angry  Bear  stole  downward 

From  his  den  the  cliffs  a-top, 
And  with  beetling  brows  of  midnight 

Glared  in  wonder  on  the  group. 

'Mong  his  sun-browned  guests  assembled 
Walked  with  courtly  grace  the  bridgroom- 
Shook  their  tawny  hands  with  pleasure, 

Smoked  with  them  the  calumet; 
Scattered  friendly  gifts  among  them— 
Knives,  and  beads,  and  painted  trinkets — 
Thus  in  loyal  clanship  bound  them. 
And  with  fealty  undissembled, 

Hasting  to  reciprocate, 
'Mong  his  curling  locks  they  twisted 
Spotted  plumes  of  heron's  feathers; 
Hung  around  his  neck  the  wampum, 
Led  him  to  the  mat  of  rushes 

Where  the  chiefs  and  sachems  sate; 
Bade  him  sit  in  council  with  them, 


HOPEKAH.  39 

Lead  their  talks  and  plan  their  marches — . 
Thus  in  firm  conlederation 

Time's  old  rancor  to  forget. 

Thus  it  was  that  by  the  lake-side 
Grew  another  sylvan  dwelling, 
With  its  rugged  beams  and  bastions, 
With  its  porch  and  palisading, 
And  its  gnarled  and* twisted  gateways, 

Planned  by  cunning  architect; 
And  the  gaunt  arms  of  the  cedars 
Twining  lovingly  about  it, 

Sought  its  portals  to  protect 
From  the  fierce  brigands  of  tempest 
That  across  the  unsheltered  prairie 

Many  a  hapless  home  had  wrecked. 

And  the  maid  with  cheeks  of  carmine, 
And  with  scarlet  berries  twining 

'Mong  the  tangles  of  her  hair, 
Sat  and  sang  from  morn  till  evening — 
Sang  the  songs  the  winds  had  taught  her 

In  their  rushing  near  and  far; 
Beading  moccasins  of  buckskin 

For  her  bridegroom  chief  to  wear. 
*  *  *  *  *  * 

One  long  day  in  blossoming  spring-time, 
When  the  willows  by  the  courses 


40  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Put  their  feathery  plumage  on, 
And  the  heron  to  his  fishing 

By  the  reedy  lake  had  come; 
And  the  blue-bird  screamed  and  chattered 
To  the  partridge  and  the  plover, 

In  the  deep  woods,  all  alone — 

Then  the  pale-faced  captain,  loosening 
From  their  cove  his  painted  paddles, 
'  Tied  his  crimson  sash  about  him, 
And  unto  the  Sachem's  daughter 
Gallant  waved  his  au  revoir; 
Saying,  "when  the  full  moon  rideth 
Through  the  furthermost  horizon, 
She  shall  touch  with  silver  pencil 
Lightly  my  returning  oar." 

But  the  "dark  moon,"  black  and  sullen, 
Glowered  upon  the  tasseling  larches, 

Bending  o'er  the  shaw-shaw's  roost; 
And  upon  the  ghostly  hemlocks, 
Standing  there  like  surpliced  hermits, 

Wondrous  apparitions  tossed; 
And  the  waiting  bride  grew  weary — 
Weary  watching  through  her  lattice 

By  the  tangling  grape-vines  crossed ; 
Weary  calling  to  the  waters, — 
"Wherefore  bring  ye  not  my  lover 


HOPEKAH.  41 

On  your  faithless  bosom  thrust?" 
Weary  conjuring  the  south  wind, — 
"Speed!  O  speed  his  skifFoi  birch-wood, 

Stranded  on  some  lonesome  coast." 

While  the  south-wind,  never  heeding, 
Rollicked  past  in  wild  gyrations; 
And  the  regiment  of  waters, 

Trampling  onward  toward  the  shore, 
Gave  no  answer  to  her  questions — 

Muttering  on  as  heretofore; 
Left  the  lonely  watcher  sitting 
On  her  braided  mat  of  rushes, 

Pensive  by  her  cabin  door. 

Long  she  sat  and  watched  the  billows 
On  their  battle  fields  contending; 
Watched  the  clouds  that  lay  at  anchor 

Like  some  calm-bestranded  fleet, 
Till  her  eyes  flashed  strange  and  brightly 
With  a  sudden  inspiration, 

And  with  swift  descending  feet 
Down  she  fluttered  to  the  sedges — 
Where  her  red  canoe  lay  floating 

Since  the  last  year's  sun  had  set; 
Seized  the  paddle,  idly  lying 

'Mong  the  waves  that  scold  and  fret — 


42  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Pushing  out  upon  the  waters 
In  her  rocking  birchwood  cradle, 

Like  a  nautilus  adrift; 
Laughing  at  the  crest  of  surges 
That  the  tumbling  billows  left, 
As  they  bounded  from  their  cavern 

Of  the  rock's  unbolted  crypt. 

From  his  roof-tree  screamed  the  eagle — 
Screamed  the  war-bird  of  the  Sachems; 
Hailed  the  dark-eyed  Sachem's  daughter 

Passing  'neath  his  household  bough; 
She  with  laughing  challenge  dared  him 
O'er  the  boisterous  lake  to  guide  her — 

Fold  his  great  wings  on  her  prow; 
But  the  bird  of  battle  only 
Fluttered  o'er  his  noisy  broodlings, 
Flapped  his  broad  plumes  from  his  eyrie; 
And  adown  th'  turbulent  current 

Watched  the  fearless  maiden  go. 

Down  thus  o'er  her  childhood's  waters 
Steered  the  wayward  navigator, 
Talking  to  the  sleepy  sturgeon 

On  the  sunny  surges  stretched, — 
"Know'st  thou  where  my  chief  has  anchored? 
Where  his  paddles  'mong  the  rushes 

Rippling  beams  of  sunlight  catch? 


HOPEKAH.  43 

I  have  called  him  through  the  forests 
And  the  solitary  places, 

But  my  calls  no  echo  fetch." 

Past  the  death-mounds  of  the  warriors, 
Where  the  wild-rice  shook  and  shivered, 
Where  the  crane  and  heron  brooded 

'Mid  the  ghosts  of  brave  and  chief; 
Past  the  ancient  "tree  of  council," 
Where  the  princes  of  the  nation 
And  the  forest  lords  had  gathered, 

From  the  prairie,  coast  and  cliff, — 

Still  undaunted  and  unfearing, 
Down  the  river  of  the  Foxes 

Swept  the  fearless  lake-shore  naiad ; 
Swept  this  daughter  of  the  warriors, 

Blanching  not,  nor  yet  afraid 
At  the  distant  muttering  thunder 

By  the  wrathful  rapids  made — 
As  they  plunged  and  leaped  and  circled, 
Galloping  like  battling  armies 

Leaping  from  their  ambuscade; 
Though  their  voices  shook  the  thickets 

With  a  shivering  of  dread. 

Still,  like  wild-bird  in  the  tempest 
Chirping  to  the  winds  of  death, 
3 


44  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Sat  the  slender  sun-browned  pilot 
Listning  to  the  war  beneath; 
Planting  well  her  painted  paddles 
On  the  rocks  that  frowned  and  jutted, 
Where  the  billows  boil  and  seethe. 

With  her  dark  eye  glancing  upward 
Came  a  whispered  invocation — 

Came  the  snatches  of  a  prayer, 
Mingling  with  the  roar  of  surges 

Tossed  upon  the  quivering  air, — 

"Spirit  of  the  waters,  hear  me, 
From  thy  place  among  the  ledges, 
Where  the  weendigoes  *  at  midnight 

Walk  the  limestone  rocks  and  prate ; 
From  thy  seat,  where,  through  the  ages, 

Thou  hast  watched  the  doors  of  fate, 
Lay  thy  hand  upon  my  paddles — 
O'er  the  dangerous  rapids  guide  me, 

Through  the  river's  rocky  gate." 

From  her  neck  she  tossed  the  wampum, 

Dashed  her  bracelets  in  the  wave; 
Laughed  to  see  the  spirit-fingers, 
Hid  beneath  the  writhing  billows, 

*  Ghosts. 


HOPEKAH.  45 

Clutching  at  the  gift  she  gave; 
Saying  to  her  tiny  frigate, — 

"0,  my  skirl',  be  staunch  and  brave ; 
Safely  bear  the  Sachem's  daughter 

Through  the  floods  that  scold  and  rave." 

Then  her  quivering  paddle  loosening 
From  the  rock  that 'scarce  had  held  it, 
On  a  great  broad-shouldered  billow 

Swept  she  down  the  wild  abyss ; 
Where  the  weird  imps  of  the  torrent 

Turbulently  roar  and  hiss, 
Bounding  like  a  stormy  petrel 

Down  the  watery  precipice. 

Sheets  of  foam  lay  all  about  her, 

Shrouds  of  surge  white  demons  wrought; 
Yet  the  frail  bark  bounded  o'er  them — 
Bounded  on  with  fearless  plunges, 

As  by  spirit  pinions  caught, 
As  by  spirit  hands  defended, 
Though  the  water-ghouls,  awakened, 

Madly  for  their  captive  fought. 

On  and  on,  the  elfin  frigate 
Flitted  by  past  cove  and  cascade, 
Till  the  April  sun,  o'erwearied, 
Watching  from  his  cloud-capt  bulwarks 


46  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

O'er  the  errant  voyager, 
Sought  his  couch  within  the  westland, 

'Neath  the  sombrous  belt  of  fir — 
Roused  upon  the  upper  headlands 

Whole  battalions  of  the  stars; 
Bid  them  hang  their  beacon  torches 
From  the  arches  of  the  heavens, 

Lighting  ship-wrecked  mariners. 

And  the  Indian  maid  Hopekah, 
Floating  where  the  waves  grew  calmer, 
Saw  the  footsteps  of  the  Sachems 
In  the  milky  way  above  her, 

Through  the  firmament  bestrewed, 
Saw  the  ancient  chiefs,  her  fathers, 
Glancing  on  her  from  their  lodges, 

Through  the  caravans  of  cloud; 
Saw  their  tomahawks  gleam  and  glisten 

Brightly  through  the  evening  shroud, 
And  her  grateful  salutation 

Chanted  to  them  clear  and  loud,— 

"From  the  gateways  of  the  Westland, 
Smile  upon  me,  O,  my  fathers ! 
Smile  upon  your  wandering  daughter 

Out  upon  the  floods  alone ; 
Where  the  great  trees  nod  above  her, 
And  the  strange  birds  scream  about  her 


HOPEKAH.  47 

And  the  night  winds  sob  and  moan; 
See,  I  come, 
Down  the  rapid  river  gliding, 
All  alone! 

Light  for  me  within  the  doorways 

Of  your  misty  spirit-lodges 

All  your  glittering  rows  of  torches ; 

Guide  me  where  my  lover  waits — 
Where  he  ties  his  sash  of  crimson, 
Plumes  his  cap  with  heron's  feathers, 

Somewhere  near  the  river's  gates; 
Stand  and  guide  me 
With  your  fitful  spirit-lanterns 
Where  he  waits." 

And  the  night-owl  heard  the  chorus, 
And  the  plashing  of  her  paddles, 

From  his  lonely  hemlock  roost: 
And  he  answered  with  an  echo 

Like  the  shrieking  of  a  ghost, — 
"Who  is  this  that  rides  at  nightfall, 
Over  ledge  and  rock  and  rapid, 

Like  some  boatman  tempest-tossed?" 

And  the  simple  maiden  answered, — 
"It  is  I,  the  Sachem's  daughter! 
And  I  seek  my  pale-browed  captain 


48  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Where  the  Frenchman  ties  his  ships; 
Where  the  big  guns  of  his  thunder, 
Down  within  the  bay-shore  harbor, 

Safe  our  great  White  Father  keeps." 

Past  the  Mission  of  the  Fathers, 
Where  the  great  Kakaulin  rushes 

Through  its  barricades  of  pine; 
Where  the  bittersweet  and  hemlock 
O'er  the  solitary  temples 

Of  the  wilderness  might  twine; 
This  lone  Winnebago  maiden, 

Passing  by  the  leafy  shrine — 
Marked  upon  her  brow  the  symbol 

And  the  sacred  countersign 
Of  the  cross  her  husband  worshipped, 

Seal  of  mysteries  divine. 

There  were  flambeaux  flaring  brightly 
At  the  old  fort  by  the  bay-shore, 
And  the  tall  masts  spread  their  colors 

As  the  shallop  bounded  in ; 
And  the  awe-struck  traders  staring 

At  the  maid  with  face  serene, 
Swore  by  all  the  gods  of  thunder 

That  a  specter  they  had  seen ; 
But  the  graceful  wanderer,  tying 


HO  PER  AH.  49 

'Mong  the  weeds  her  skiff  of  birch-wood, 
Told  her  quest  with  princely  mien, — 

"Know  ye  of  the  chief  De  Kaury? 

He  who  wears  the  heron's  feathers ; 

Tell  me  where  his  camp-fire  flickers 
'Mong  the  clumps  of  evergreen." 

And  the  traders  pointed  yonder 
To  a  brave  ship  bearing  outward, 
With  her  flags  and  canvas  flying 

In  the  freshening  evening  gale — 
Where,  upon  the  taffrail  standing, 
Towered  the  sturdy  chief,  her  husband, 

Reefing  in  the  straining  sail; 
When  his  quick  eye,  glancing  downward 
Through  the  glittering  row  of  torches, 

On  the  Sachem's  daughter  fell.     • 

With  one  bound  the  deck  he  measured, 
And  the  seamen  in  the  rigging 

Gazed  in  mute  astonishment 
When  the  stalwart  trading  captain, 

Late  so  stern  and  arrogant, 
In  his  strong  arms  clasped  her  to  him; 

Though  a  blank  bewilderment 
Sat  upon  his  earnest  features — 

Knit  his  brow  in  wonder  bent. 


5o  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

"Wherefore  thus,  my  lake-shore  maiden, 
From  thy  nest  among  the  sedges 
Hast  thou  ventured  thus  unguarded 

Through  the  solitary  pass — 
Hast  thou  dared  those  dangerous  waters 

Dashing  through  the  wilderness? 
Fear'sf  thou  not  the  ghosts  that  wander 

Lonesome  lakes  and  wild  morass, 
That  thus  for  a  recreant  lover 
Thou  should'st  dare  the  imps  of  danger 

In  a  race  so  hazardous? 

Not  again,  my  wild  sea-eaglet, 
Will  I  trust  thy  wayward  impulse; 
Not  again  will  risk  thy  pinions, 
Like  thine  own  free  waves  untethered; 

Yonder  on  my  goodly  sloop 
I  will  hold  thee  for  a  captive. 
And  if,  through  the  great  sea-water,  * 
With  its  giant  rocks  o'erhanging, 
Where  the  bear  and  panther  harbor, 

'Mong  their  dens  our  sail  should  swoop; 
Thou  shalt  try  thy  arrow  on  them, 
Make  the  great  bear  of  the  mountains 

Down  beside  thy  feet  to  stoop; 


*  Lake  Superior. 


HOPEKAH.  5 1 

Fashion  thee  a  robe  of  ermine, 
Steal  thy  cloak  from  oft'  the  panther 
Or  the  spotted  antelope. 

So  the  tall  sloop  from  the  harbor 

Sailing  at  the  wind's  behest, 
With  her  gusty  sheets  unfolded, 
Like  a  stately  cormorant  flapping 

Her  white  pinions  in  the  mist; 
Flew  before  the  coastland  breezes, 

Swept  in  majesty  the  waste. 

And  the  corn  was  in  the  tassel, 

And  the  cardinal  flower  was  blooming, 

F'er  the  sail  of  bold  De  Kaury 

Saw  those  ancient  cliffs  again — 
E'er  his  eaglet  to  her  eyrie 

By  the  Winnebago  came, 
Back  to  weave  her  mats  of  grasses, 

Resting  from  her  long  campaign. 

And  e'er  scarlet  grew  the  sumach, 
And  the  yellow-mantled  beeches 

Showered  with  gold  the  forest  ways, 
And  the  cricket  of  the  autumn 

Chirped  through  long  September  days, 
Filling  up  the  misty  spaces 

With  his  antiquated  lays, — 


52  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

One  long  day  a  birch-bark  cradle, 
Deftly  wove  and  quaintly  beaded, 

Hung  beside  the  wigwam  door; 
And  Hopekah  'mid  her  broideries 

Sat  beside  it  on  the  floor, 
Singing  weird-like  songs  and  ditties, 
Untranscribed  by  scald  or  linguist, 

To  the  waif  thus  tossed  ashore, — 


"Ah,  my  little  mountain  eagle, 
Little  wandering  unfledged  eagle, 
Straying  to  my  couch  of  grass ; 
Ah,  my  wonderful  Chougarah,  * 
All  the  stars, 
From  beyond  their  evening  bars 
Light  those  glorious  eyes  of  thine, 
Baby  mine! 

Rock  and  swing, 

To  thy  birchen  cradle  cling, 

Warrior  mine! 
Little  panther  from  the  cliff-tops 

Where  the  hemlocks  climb." 


*  Chougarah   De  Kaury,  afterwards   head  chief  of  the 
Winnebagocs. 


HOPRKAH.  53 

Thus  the  dusky  forest  princess 
Sang  away  the  shimmering  summer, 
With  the  wondrous  cradle  swinging 

From  the  gnarled  oak's  rugged  bough; 
Till  the  winter  marching  quickly 
On  his  snow-shoes  stalked  the  forest, 

Tracked  the  morass  through  and  through; 
But  among  his  bear-skin  curtains, 
In  his  scarlet  blanket  swaddled, 

Still  the  little  warrior  grew — 
Chirruping  in  wondrous  language, 
He  had  learned  across  the  mountains, 

To  his  father's  retinue. 

Thus  the  summer  and  the  winter 

Came  with  bloom,  and  blast,  and  blossom, 

To  the  Winnebago  lakeshore — 

Came  with  hurrying  sandals  on; 
And  a  squad  of  little  warriors 
By  the  Frenchman's  vine-wreathed  doorway 

Sat  and  chattered  in  the  sun; 
Chattered  to  the  muttering  billows 

Trooping  shoreward,  one  by  one. 

And  the  brown  squaws  husked  the  maize-ears, 
And  the  hunters  shot  their  arrows, 
And  the  braves  adown  the  war-path 
Marched  in  long  battalions  grim; 


54  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

And  the  moons,  all  uneventful, 

Rode  with  rounded  crescent  in. 

But  the  hoarse,  deep-throated  billows 
Vaguely  muttered  to  the  cedars 
Of  a  hurricane  that,  sweeping 

O'er  the  big  sea-water  bar, 
Filled  the  great  French  Father's  coast-line 

With  the  thunderings  of  war; 
From  the  scabbard  that  had  sheathed  them 

Woke  the  sword  and  scimetar. 

Often  now,  with  arms  close  folded, 
Gazing  o'er  the  stretch  of  waters 

Where  so  long  had  been  his  home, — 
Sat  the  bronzed  and  stalwart  captain, 
Sat  and  pondered  through  the  watches 

Of  the  midnight,  all  alone! 
Self-absorbed  and  meditative, 
As  though  tangled  problems  weighing- 
Problems  that  his  soul  had  measured 

By  a  fierce  comparison. 

Thus,  one  evening,  sitting  rigid, 
With  his  bent  brows  stern  and  knotted, 
Heard  he  not  the  step  besidejhim, 

Till  a  gentle  hand  was  laid 
Soothing  on  the  locks  that  clustering 


HOPEKAH.  55 

O'er  his  damp  brow  swept  and  strayed; 
And  a  timid  voice,  beseeching, 

Spoke  with  language  half  afraid, — 

"Why  sits  my  chief  alone  upon  the  shore, 

With  the  great  waves  all  strangled  at  his  feet? 

Why  talks  he  to  the  west-wind  scudding  o'er, 

Why  strains  his  eye  where  the  great  waters  meet?" 

And  the  listening  chief  made  answer, 
Dashing  back  the  heavy  tresses 
From  his  damp  and  pallid  forehead, — 

."Hark!  heard  I  not  the  belching  of  the  guns 
From  the  dim  Heights  of  Abraham  afar? 

Was  it  the  echo  of  the  cannon's  boom 

That  swept  across  the  lake  with  sudden  jar?" 

"Rest  thee,  my  chief!  the  Spirit  of  the  Storm 
Rumbles  and  mutters  through  yon  beetling  cliff, 

Waking  the  braves  that  slumber  further  down; 

Saw'st  not  their  tomahawks  through  the  darkness 
lift?* 


*  The  Indian  believes  that  the  spirits  of  the  dead  war- 
riors visit  the  earth  in  the  tempest,  and  the  lightnings  are  the 
flashing  of  their  tomahawks. 


56  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

"My  fathers  were  all  warriors;  moons  on  moons 
Have  left  them  sleeping  'neath  the  limestone  ledge; 

But  when  the  storms  are  out  they  walk  the  earth, 
And  visit  then  their  olden  heritage. 


Thy  rest  shall  be  with  theirs,  my  pale-browed  chief ! 

My  father's  bow  shall  slumber  by  thy  side; 
The  ancient*  wampum  round  thy  neck  be  hung, 

And  near  thee  sleep  thy  dusky  forest  bride. 

But  wherefore  strains  so  bodingly  thine  eye 

Beyond  the  forest-crested  lake  away? 
Why  fiercely  throb  the  veins  upon  thy  brow, 

Laid  on  my  shoulder,  hot  and  restlessly? 

Dost  thou  not  love  me?    Does  thy  spirit  pine 
For  fairer  forms  the  big  sea-water  o'er — 

For  softer  voice  than  hers  who  chants  for  thee 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  her  wigwam  door?" 

"It  is  because  I  love  thee  that  my  soul 

Starts  with  a  sudden  pang  this  twilight  hour; 

Daughter  of  chiefs!  the  love  I  gave  to  thee 
Wakes  up  within  me  with  a  stronger  power. 

For  thee,  and  those  young  warriors  of  thine, 
Fain  would  I  rest  me  on  this  sylvan  strand; 


HOPEKAH.  57 

But  hark !  the  Great  far  Spirit  calls  to  me 
In  tones  of  thunder,  from  my  fatherland. 

I  hear  the  blare  of  trumpets  on  the  breeze — 
The  tramp  of  war-steeds  o'er  the  far  off  waves ; 

And  loud,  across  the  sweep  of  yonder  seas 

The  winds  are  calling  from  my  fathers'  graves . 

Unloose  thy  arms,  maid  of  the  Western  wild ! 

In  pity  turn  from  me  those  tearful  eyes — 
E'er  thy  young  eaglets  waken  at  the  morn 

My  sail  must  point  afar  toward  Eastern  skies." 

"And  wilt  thou  leave  me?   must  I  sit  and  pine 
Upon  the  mat  before  my  lone  lodge  door — 

Till  the  leaves  crimson  on  the  hanging  vine, 

And  the  snow-drifts  creep  the  dismal  forests  o'er  ? 

And  must  I  watch  the  clouds  go  sailing  by 
Like  braves  upon  the  war-path,  one  by  one; 

And  know  not  if  thy  spirit  pass  me  nigh, 
Bound  for  the  gateway  of  the  setting  sun  ?" 

"Nay,  by  my  soul!  the  spring-time's  gentle  rays 
Shall  find  me  folded  in  thy  arms  again ; 

Unless  the  direful  fates  of  battle-days 

Shall  leave  me  sleeping  on  the  trampled  plain. 


58  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

If  such  a  fate  the  battle-gods  decree, — 
If  woe  the  dark  portentous  clouds  betide, 

This  wampum  string  a  messenger  shall  bear 

Through  mountain  wilds — o'er   billows   deep  and 
wide, — 

Through  pathless   prairies    and    through    tamarack 
swamp, 

Until  it  reach  thy  vine-encircled  door; 
And  thou  shalt  wear  it  proudly  for  my  sake, 

Although  thy  warrior  should  return  no  more. 

And  now,  farewell!  the  lightning's  lurid  glare 
Shall  light  my  shallop  o'er  the  tossing  lake; 

Daughter  of  Chiefs !  thy  gushing  tears  forbear! 
Wear  thy  grief  proudly  lor  thy  warrior's  sake. 

Dark  beauty  of  the  wild!  farewell,  farewell! 

Swift  swaths  of  foam  my  venturous  bark  shall  make  , 
Watch  well  the  dim  horizon,  faint  and  far, 

Till  o'er  the  western  wave  my  sail  shall  break." 

Down  the  solitary  passes, 

Through  the  shadows  swept  the  oarsman — - 

Through  the  dim,  unanswering  shadows, 

Closing  round  him  still  and  mute ; 
Through  the  highways  of  the  waters, 


HOPEKAH.  59, 

Whose  rough  billows,  uncombatant, 

Cared  not  now  to  hold  dispute, 
But  around  the  painted  paddles' 

Tossed  and  toyed  irresolute. 

And  a  pensive  voluntary 

Swept  the  surge  with  fitful  gush, 
Gathering  in  its  incantations 

Echos  through  the  solemn  hush, — 

THE    INDIAN    BRIDE'S   SONG   TO    HER   DEPARTING 
WARRIOR. 

"Walk  lightly  o'er  the  waters, 
O  spirit  of  the  tempest! 
Light  warily  thy  torches, 

Till  my  lover's  light  canoe 
Flits  through  the  Eastern  gateway 
To  the  city  of  his  fathers — 
To  the  land  that  first  was  trodden 

By  the  mighty  Manitou. 

Rein  in  thy  war-steeds  tramping 
O'er  the  solitary  mountains — 
The  mountains  grand  and  ghostly, 

Where  the  buried  Sachems  march ; 
And  sheath  their  flashing  tomahawks 
That  have  rent  the  clouds  asunder, 

4 


So  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

As  they  kindle  at  the  midnight 
Their  flaming  battle-torch. 

For  my  pale-browed  chief  rides  proudly, 
And  my  hero  skims  the  billow 
In  his  tiny  skiff  of  birch  wood, 

Like  a  swan  from  out  the  reeds; 
May  the  ancient  warriors  lead  him 
To  the  distant  fields  of  battle, 
And  fill  his  locks  with  war-plumes 

Where  the  prostrate  foeman  bleeds." 


In  a  palpitating  silence, 

In  a  mournful,  misty  silence, 

Drooped  the  pale  and  wasted  summer, 

Sobbing  her  wan  life  away; 
With  the  crimson  lights  upon  her, 
Soft  as  from  dim  castle  windows 

O'er  the  mountain's  boundary. 

All  the  day  the  squirrel  chattered ; 
All  the  eve  the  brown  quail  brooded ; 
All  the  night  the  wa-wa  nestled 

'Mong  the  rushes  and  the  sedge; 
And  the  beaver  at  his  bulwarks 

Toiled  along  the  river  ledge. 


HOPEKAH.  6 1 

And  the  mists  grew  deeper,  thicker, 

On  the  forests  round  about, 
Till  the  birds  had  ceased  to  twitter; 
And  the  ancient  hunters  watching 

From  their  craggy,  weird  redoubt, 
Said,  "The  spirits  of  the  sachems 

In  their  misty  gear  are  out, 
Kindling  up  their  smoky  watch-fires 

On  their  old  forgotten  route." 

Sobbingly  the  west  wind  wandered, 
And  the  lone  poetic  pine-trees 

Told  their  mournful  prophecy; 
And  the  yellow  mantled  beeches 
With  the  zephyrs  that  had  flirted, 

Swaying  in  their  ecstasy, 
Swirled  and  shook,  and  swung  their  branches, 

As  in  smothered  mutiny; 
And  the  wild-goose  from  her  rushes 
With  vociferous  racket  stirring, 

Toward  the  southward  hasted  by. 

Then  the  winter's  wild  battalions 
Rushing  from  their  Arctic  dungeons, 

Held  their  headlong  tournament; 
Burst  like  lions  of  the  desert 

On  the  shivering  forests  bent. 


62  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Every  warrior  fled  before  them, 
With  his  spear  and  bow  unbended; 
Every  tall,  majestic  heron, 

To  some  sheltering  cove  had  flown; 
And  the  stern,  unyielding  cedars, 

Held  the  war-path,  all  alone! 

Would  ye  know  where  hid  my  Princess, 
Through  the  silent  days  that  followed — 
Where  her  little  brace  ot  warriors 

Crooned  their  infant  dialogue? 
Look  within  the  antlered  doorway, 
Where  the  counterpanes  of  bear-skin, 
Spotted  cat,  and  fawn,  and  badger, 

Form  full  many  a  royal  rug. 

There,  in  all  the  lore  she  treasured 
From  the  legends  of  her  people — 
In  the  wild  traditions  taught  her 

By  the  prophets  of  her  tribe; 
From  the  books  their  father  left  her, 
Sought  she  slowly  to  transcribe 

To  those  scions  of  alien  races, 
Myths,  and  creeds,  and  lore  historic, 

Wrought  in  wondrous  narrative. 

Regent  of  a  weird  dominion, 

Whose  rude  scepter  down  the  winters 


HOPEKAH.  63 

Of  the  years  was  swiftly  traveling, 
And  whose  diadems  barbaric, 

Toward  her  unaccustomed  brow 
With  the  moons  were  quickly  hasting 

Her  dark  tresses  to  bestrew; 
With  her  woman's  heart  bestranded 
On  the  shores  of  two  horizons, 

Watching  all  the  tides  that  flow, 
Questioning  all  the  winds  that  wander 
Through  the  far  and  unknown  spaces, 

Rushing  wildly  to  and  fro; 
Questioning  with  a  dim  foreboding, — 
"Bring  ye  tears,  or  bring  ye  gladness, 

In  your  midnight  mutterings  low?" 

One  bright  morn  the  forests  sparkled, 

Sheathed  in  icy  coats  of  mail; 
Brilliant  in  their  stolen  diamonds — 

Robed  in  shimmering  tissues  pale, 
Like  a  frozen  bride  enshrouded 

In  her  glittering  wedding  veil. 

And  across  the  cold  mosaic 

Of  the  icy  lake  there  hurried 

One  who  on  his  snow-shoes  traveled 

Leagues  and  leagues  of  drifted  waste, 
Coming  to  the  Sachem's  doorway, 


64  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

With  a  hasty  step,  and  fast, 
Halting  with  unsteady  purpose, 

And  with  brow  that  turned  aghast- 
Speaking  in  a  husky  whisper 

And  his  eye  with  tears  o'ercast, — 

"Know  ye  whose  this  string  of  wampum— 
Whose  this  tasseled  sash  of  crimson?" 

Asked  he  in  a  faltering  speech; 
"Yonder,  o'er  the  blue  St.  Lawrence, 
Where  the  towering  Heights  of  Abram 

Frowning  o'er  the  broad  gulf  reach, 
There  my  friend  and  comrade  faltered, 
Wounded  by  a  British  saber; 
Like  a  scathed  and  shivered  oak-tree 

Prone  he  lay  upon  the  beach !" 


Have  ye  ever  felt  the  silence 

Of  the  great  woods,  deep  and  solemn, 

When  the  fury  of  the  whirlwind 

Through  its  peaceful  crypts  has  rushed : 
And  the  cedars  and  the  pine  trees 

Down  beneath  its  hoof  lie  crushed? 
So  that  morn  of  frosty  splendor 
Looked  the  cabin  by  the  lake-side, 

In  its  desolation  hushed! 


HOPEKAH.  65 

Prostrate,  on  her  mat  of  rushes, 
Lay  the  chieftain's  darling,  panting 
Like  a  wild  gazelle  that,  wounded, 

Hides  her  'mong  the  tangled  brake; 
Moaning  to  the  distant  waters 
Of  the  great  gulf  to  the  eastward  — 
"Bring  me  back  my  chief,  my  husband! 
From  the  dead,  or  from  the  living— 
In  his  plumes,  or  in  his  death-shroud, 
Bring  him,  O  ye  winds  of  winter, 

On  your  wrestling  pinions  back!" 

But  the  west-wind,  sobbing,  moaning, 
Wandered  on  across  the  mountains; 
And  the  shrouded  cedars  muttering 

Passionate  dirges  doled  and  spent; 
And  the  stern-browed  warriors,  passing, 
Stealthy  near  that  threshold  bent, 
Bowed  their  dusky  heads  in  silence- 
Wrapped  their  arms  upon  their  bosoms 

In  a  silent  discontent. 

O,  those  days  that  came  uncalled  for! 
O,  those  nights  that  went  uncounted! 

Stretched  to  centuries  e'er  they  crept; 
Can  the  years  whose  fearful  chasms 
Stand  unbridged  where  last  we  leaped  them, 

With  no  spar  to  intercept — 


66  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Can  the  tinge  of  sunshine  gild  them, — 
Looking  back  o'er  life's  horizon, — 
Gild  those  awful  precipices 

Whence  our  tottering  feet  escaped? 
*  ,    *  *  *  * 

O'er  his  daughter  bent  the  Sachem, 
Bent  the  old  man,  tempest-stricken; 
But  her  sad  eye  on  distance 

Fixed  as  though  she  heard  him  not: 
"Daughter  of  my  dead  Nehotah, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  fire  within  thee; 
Thou  must  raise  a  race  of  warriors, 
Thou  must  wear  thy  father's  wampum, 
Thou  must  sit  and  lead  the  councils ; 

Rouse  thee!   though  all  unforgot 
Be  the  grief  that  rends  thy  spirit; 
Let  the  daughter  of  the  Sachems 
Bow  with  dauntless  acquiescence 

To  the  fate  the  gods  allot." 

Slowly,  as  a  soul  that  travels 
Through  illimitable  spaces, 

To  the  bounds  of  other  spheres, 
Wanders  back  to  life's  rough  highways— 

To  its  torture  and  its  tears ; 
So  that  stricken  spirit  backward 
Stole  across  the  wide  abysses 

Days  had  lengthened  into  years, — 


HOPEKAH.  67 

Looked  into  the  stormy  faces 
Of  the  moons  that  lay  before  her; 
Laid  aside  the  sash  of  crimson 

That  her  chief  was  wont  to  tie ; 
Laid  aside  the  heron's  feathers, 

Gazing  long  and  reverently; 
Laid  aside  the  songs  she  caroled 
In  the  Indian-summer  weather 

Of  those  golden  days  gone  by; 
Stood  again  before  her  people 

Garbed  in  sorrow's  majesty. 

And  the  errant  winds  have  told  me 
How  her  form  was  seen  at  midnight 
Gazing  o'er  the  stormv  billows, 

Far,  scrfar  away  beyond; 
Where  the  clouds  lay  piled  like  fleeces 

In  the  distances  profound. 

How  her  voice  grew  low  and  tender, 
How  her  hand  brought  aid  and  soothing 

To  the  homes  of  grief  and  want; 
How  she  sat  within  the  doorway 
Of  the  grey-haired  chief,  her  father — 

Watched  his  step  wax  slow  and  faint; 
Till  one  night  across  the  hill-tops 
Glowed  the  torches  of  the  Sachems, 

Through  the  silvery  clouds  aslant ; 


68  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

And  the  old  man,  whispering  feebly, 
Bade  them  rein  his  favorite  war-horse — 
Bade  them  bring  his  bow  and  arrows, 
Bade  them  start  him  on  his  journey 
Up  the  path  his  fathers  went. 

How  through  long  dark  years  he  sat  there  * 
Like  a  "skeleton  in  armor," 
Holding  in  his  bony  fingers 
Broidered  reins  that  dropped  in  pieces, 

Halting  on  that  weary  march ; 
While  his  mute  and  obdurate  mustang 
Bore  him  never  nigh  or  nearer 
To  the  gateway  of  the  Sachems — 

To  the  cloudland's  outmost  porch. 

How,  beneath  the  Tree  of  Council,  f 

On  the  old  historic  lake-shore 

By  the  stormy  Winnebago, 

Sat  my  Princess  'mong  the  warriors, 

Queen  amid  those  dusky  knights ; 
With  the  Wampum  of  her  father, 

And  his  war-plumes  well  bedight; 
And  while  flamed  and  crackled  round  her 

*  Buried  on  his  war-horse. 

f  The  old  council  tree  still  stands  on  the  eastern  shore  of 
Lake  Winnebago,  near  the  city  of  Neenah. 


HOPEKAH.  69 

Boughs  of  pine  and  spruce  and  tamarack, 
This  the  charge  she  gave  her  chieftains 
On  that  weird  heroic  night, — 

"Brothers,  when  the  pale-face  wanders 
To  the  wilds  our  fathers  left  us, 
Sheath  your  arrows  in  their  quiver, 

Hide  your  tomahawks  in  the  grass ; 
Meet  ye  not  in  feud,  as  foemen, 

In  the  solitary  pass: 
But  with  hands  outstretched,  as  children 
Of  the  Great  far  Spirit  yonder; 
Hark!  he  sends  you  on  the  south-wind  . 
Messages  of  love  and  peace! 

Bid  the  white  man  plant  his  corn-fields, 
Sail  his  big  ships  on  your  waters: 

Smoke  with  him  the  calumet; 
For  across  the  distant  mountains 
Must  his  star  up  the  horizon 

Ride  the  heavens,  when  yours  has  set!" 

So  when  to  the  vine-wreathed  doorway 
Of  the  widowed  Sachem's  daughter, 
Strayed  one  morn  a  bearded  stranger  * 
From  the  far  land  of  the  sunrise, 

*  Carver. 


?o  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Craving  space  within  her  door; 
Called  she  forth  her  trusted  hunters- 
Called  she  forth  her  men  of  council; 
Bade  them  give  the  pale-faced  traveler 
Room  and  welcome  in  their  lodges, 
Bid  them  spread  for  him  a  banquet 

On  the  old  lake's  sandy  floor — 
Greet  with  open  hands  and  hearty 

The  white  chief's  ambassador. 


Black  and  smouldering  lie  the  embers 
On  the  shores  of  Winnebago, 
Quenched  by  storms  and  winds  of  ages, 

By  the  tempest  and  the  flood; 
Gone  the  old  ancestral  cedars 

By  the  breezy  lake  that  stood — 
Gone  the  eagle  from  his  hemlocks, 
Gone  the  panther  from  his  covert, 
Gone  the  sachems  from  their  camp-fires, 

Leagues  along  the  upper  road. 

And  Hopekah,  through  the  shadows 
Long  since  heard  her  lover  calling 

Through  the  unexplored  expanse ; 
Long  since  wrapped  her  robes  about  her, 
Seeking  for  him  through  the  boundaries 

Of  the  earth's  circumference. 


HOPEKAH.  71 

And  the  old  lake,  still  and  solemn, 
Ever  since  has  sung  her  dirges — 
Ever  since  a  miserere 

Droned  for  her  at  evening-tide ; 
Would  ye  hear  its  incantations? 
Stand  with  me  upon  its  beaches 
When  the  tempests  toss  their  surges, 

Rave  and  wrestle  in  their  pride; 
You  shall  see  the  ancient  lovers, 
You  shall  hear  the  painted  paddles, 
Keeping  time-strokes  with  the  cycles 

As  adown  the  waves  they  glide. 

1876. 


RUNES  FROM  THE  FOREST. 


RUNES  FROM  THE  FOREST. 


THE  SACHEM'S  GHOS7. 

'Twas  a  weird  and  elfish  midnight, 
When  the  tempest's  wings  unfold; 
And  the  knell  of  distant  storm-bells 
Across  the  old  lake  tolled — 
The  old  lake  Winnebago, 
That  for  centuries  had  rolled. 

The  angry  waves  washed  over, 
And  the  frantic  waves,  unchained, 
Came  leaping  ever  shoreward, 
Unfettered  and  unreined 
Like  the  mustang  from  the  pampas, 
That  no  lasso  ever  tamed. 

Beneath  an  ancient  cedar, 
With  its  scraggy  arms  outflung — 
With  the  mosses  from  its  branches 
Like  whitened  scalp-locks  hung, 
Stood  a  grey  old  ghostly  warrior — 
5 


76  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

A  warrior  gaunt  and  grim ; 

And  he  stood  and  stared  upon  the  waves, 

And  the  waves  stared  back  on  him 

With  a  look  of  questioning  wonder, 

And  a  grim  defiant  stare, 

As  they  tossed  their  foam  unsparing 

'Mong  the  tangles  of  his  hair. 

Then  the  warrior  broke  the  pauses 
Between  the  tempest's  screech, 
With  his  withered  arms  raised  upward, 
And  with  wild,  disjointed  speech: 
"Oh,  wind-rocked  Winnebago, 
Know'st  thou  not  who  treads  thy  shore? 
Know'st  not  old  Yellow  Thunder, 
Who  in  the  days  of  yore 
Led  his  feathered  hosts  to  battle 
Through  the  cedars  green  and  hoar — 
The  strong,  unbending  cedars, 
By  the  hurricane  swept  o'er  ?" 

"Knowest  not  he  whose  arrows 
Brought  the  eagle  from  his  perch  ? 
Who  lighted  up  the  council-fires 
With  blazing  hemlock  torch, 
And  called  the  chiefs  and  sachems 
Back  from  their  outward  march, 


FOREST  R  UNES.  7  7 

With  their  tomahawks  and  deer-skins, 
And  their  red  canoes  of  birch  ?" 

"Oh,  wind-rocked  Winnebago, 
Thou  art  traitor  to  thy  trust ! 
We  bid  thee  with  thy  billows  guard 
Our  fathers'  slumbering  dust; 
We  bid  thee  drive  the  pale-face  back 
From  off  our  burial  mounds, 
When  we  should  wander  far  away 
In  the  happy  hunting  grounds. 

But  to-night  upon  the  stretches 
Of  thy  forest-guarded  strand, 
In  the  lonely  midnight  watches, 
Back  to  my  father's  land — 
Back  to  the  shores  stamped  over 
With  the- footsteps  of  my  band, 
I  come,  and  come  to  curse  thee 
Above  my  father's  graves; 
And  to  leave  my  ban  upon  the  sands 
Where  wash  thy  traitorous  waves." 

"Where  are  the  braves  I  left  thee, 
An  hundred  thousand  strong, 
With  their  hatchets  gleaming  proudly 
And  their  wampum  bravely  strung  ? 


78    POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

They  answer  not  my  war-cry 
The  olden  beach  along  ! 

There  stands  with  hoary  branches 

The  Sachem's  council-tree,  * 

Unscathed,  as  when  the  heron 

Built  'neath  it  silently; 

But  the  chiefs  who  smoked  the  peace-pipe 

Like  fallen  forests  lie, 

With  not  a  hand  to  wave  aloft 

The  fire-brand  to  the  sky — 

And  not  a  wigwam  standing 

Thy  restless  waters  nigh  ! 

Oh,  wind-rocked  Winnebago, 

With  the  same  old  fearless  sweep; 

With  the  lashing  of  thy  surges 

And  thy  thunderous  voices  deep, — 

Where  are  thy  sun-browned  children 

I  left  for  thee  to  keep, 

Whose  moccasined  feet  along  thy  banks 

At  eve  were  wont  to  creep  ? 

Gone,  with  the  crane  and  curlew  ! 

Gone  where  the  west-winds  sleep  ! 


Still  standing  on  the  west  shore  of  the  lake. 


FOREST  RUNES.  79 

And  the  white  man's  foot  comes  marching 
With  a  strong  and  steady  tramp, 
Far  down  to  meet  thy  billows 
Where  our  braves  were  wont  to  camp ; 
And  we  count  their  sweeping  cities 
By  the  midnight  glaring  lamp, 
That  flares  where  lay  our  rice-fields 
And  tamarack  guarded  swamp. 

His  iron-horse  *  snorts  defiant 
Our  burial  mounds  across, 
Where  erst  thy  treacherous  waters 
Were  wont  their  spray  to  toss; 
Where  we  laid  our  sires  and  foemen 
In  that  moon  of  fearful  loss, 
When  the  life-blood  of  our  heroes 
Stained  deep  the  fern  and  moss. 

We  bid  thee  keep  them  sacred 
When  the  Winnebagoes'  trail 
Should  point  where  flies  the  wild-goose, 
And  where  the  white  clouds  sail; 
When  the  dirges  of  our  war-tribes 
Should  load  each  passing  gale. 


*  A  branch  of  railroad  now  runs  directly  through  the 
"Hill  of  the  Dead,"  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Winnebago, 
where  the  Foxes,  Sacs  and  Winnebagoes  met  in  battle. 


80  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Oh,  wind-rocked  Winnebago, 

For  thy  lightly-broken  faith, 

I  will  haunt  thee  in  the  tempest 

Like  some  fierce  and  angry  wraith; 

I  will  mow  thy  stately  cedars, 

I  will  blast  thy  lordly  pines : 

And  my  torch  shall  scorch  thy  prairies 

In  the  goodly  harvest  times. 

I  have  leagued  me  with  the  whirlwind, 

And  when  ye  hear  his  tread 

Come  trampling  down  the  hemlocks, 

And  the  tall  oaks  overhead, — 

When  he  lashes  thee  to  fury 

Till  thy  billows  boil  and  rage, 

Thou  shalt  see  my  shape  upon  thy  shores 

Sworn  endless  war  to  wage; 

To  haunt  like  an  avenging  sprite 

My  father's  heritage  !" 


FOREST  RUNES. 


GREAT  MICHIGAN  AND  HER  CITA- 
DELS. 

O  wrathful,  storm-scathed  Michigan  !  whose  billows 
Sweep  out  thy  beacon-lights  from  cliff  and  tower, — 

Rocking  thy  rugged  mariners  as  on  the  pillows 
Of  giant  ocean  waves,  that  send  their  roar 

Through  listening  continents;  we  hear  thy  voices, — 
Talking  in  thunders,  o'er  thy  surges  rolled — 

With  answering  soul,  that  shivers  or  rejoices 
When  thou  thy  carnivals  of  tempests  hold. 

The  ancient  eagle  long  has  left  her  cradle, 

Her  storm-rocked  cradle  on  the  hemlock's  bough ; 

The  blue-winged  heron  stoops  not  now  to  dabble 
In  wild-rice  swamp,  skirting  thy  shores  below. 

The  ghosts  of  brave  and  sachem  with  their  torches 
Flaring,  no  more  at  midnight  haunt  the  cliffs ; 

Along  thy  sandy  beach  no  warrior  marches, 
No  feathered  clansman,  and  no  beaded  chiefs. 

Gone!  all  are  gone!    Another  race  and  people 
Wander  thy  shores  and  rear  thy  granite  piles 


82  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

In  towering  bastions,  or  aspiring  steeples, 

That  lift  their  heads  in  pompous  pride  the  while. 

Hushing  thy  lordly  waves  to  silence  never, 
Quenching  their  echoes  neither  day  or  night, 

Thine  old  barbaric  roar  sweeps  on  forever— 

Unawed,   unhushed;    though   frowning    ramparts 
fright 

Thine  ancient  harbors,  and  great  hulks,  o'ersweeping 
Thy  noisy  waves,  float  proudly  out  and  on; 

Forgetful  that  the  dungeons  'neath  thee  sleeping 
May  yet  unbar  their  gates  and  gulf  them  down. 

Strong  citadels  are  perched  on  thy  dominion  ! 

To  eastward  and  to  westward,  lo  !  they  rise  ! 
And  the  swift  bird,  pluming  at  morn  her  pinion, 

May  not  outsweep  them  e'er  the  day-light  dies. 

Bulwarks  of  empire,  that  the  sun  in  setting 
Far  o'er  unfathomed  seas  shall  never  bound; 

Whose  landmarks— mountain  peak  and  crag  forget- 
ting- 
Shall  stretch  away  through  desert  wastes  profound. 

Thy  Sabbath  bells  ring  out  their  evening  vesper, 
From  shore  to  shore,  across  thy  broad  domain; 


FOREST  RUNES.  83 

Flinging  their  anthems  to  the  soft  southwester, 
Bidding  the  forests  wake  their  bold  refrain. 

We  mind  us  of  a  Sabbath,  gone  to  story, 

When  o'er  thy  leagues  a  burning  cyclone  swept, 

Wrapping  the  frightened  heavens  in  awesome  glory, 
Bursting  upon  the  citadel  that  slept 

Down  on  thy  southern  verge,  whose  midnight  watches 
Were  broke  with  wild  alarms,  and  wails  that  rushed/ 

Along  thy  pebbly  strand  and  misty  reaches; 

With  crash  of  tower  and  rampart  that  lay  crushed 

In  awful  ruin;  while  in  naming  surges 

Swept  the  mad  hurricane,  with  fierce  wings  tossed, 
Above  the  queenly  city's  utmost  verges, 

Impatient  for  the  fiery  holocaust! 

And   when   the   moon    looked    down    at    midnight 
watches, 
Grim  specters  glared  through  dome  and  marble 
hall; 
And  all  was  still  as  where  the  bittern  hatches 
Or  where  the  cormorant  stands  sentinel. 

Quick  years  have  fled,  and  from  those  costly  ashes 
Rise  sculptured  column,  massive  architrave, 


84  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Firm  bedded  in  the  rock  thy  billow  washes, — 
Ordained,  perhaps,  the  centuries  to  outbrave. 

Roar  on!  old  Michigan,  in  thy  defiance! 

And  guard  the  cities  sleeping  at  thy  feet; 
And  bind  the  hurricanes  in  thine  alliance 

O'er  thy  tempestuous  shores  that  rave  and  beat. 

And  when  another  race  with  noise  and  clatter 
Ride  through  the  portals  that  we  rear  to-day, 

Guard  sacredly  the  "  death-places"  we  scatter 
Upon  thy  hill-tops,  when  we  pass  away! 

Sept.,  1878. 


B  UR1ED  IN  HIS   WAR-PL  LMES.  * 

"Warriors,"  the  tawny  Sachem  said, 
"The  sun  goes  down  in  the  bloody  west, 

With  his  crimson  blanket  o'er  him  spread, 
Like  a  chieftain  robing  himself  for  rest. 

Mine  too,  goes  down !  o'er  the  smoky  hills 


*  To-pe-kah,  a  magnificent-looking  Indian,  six  feet  high, 
shot  by  the  Chippewas  for  killing  some  of  their  tribe.  Before 
death  he  distributed  his  robes  and  ornaments  among  them, 
reserving  only  his  eagle's  feathers  won  in  battle. 


FOREST  RUNES.  85 

I  hear  the  Great  far  Spirit  call ! 
'To-pe-kah,'  he  says,  'take  the  wa-wa's  trail, 

Along  where  those  clouds  of  purple  fall, 
Through  the  gates  of  the  evening  urge  thy  steed 

To  the  plains  where  the  hungry  bison  feed, 
And  the  antelope  tends  unscared  her  young; 
Where  the  great  war-eagle 
His  eyrie  makes, 
And  the  heron  broods  in  the  quiet  lakes ; 
Hark!  they  call  thee  on, 
The  Sachems  of  old  in  belt  and  plume!' 

"So,  warriors,  here  at  your  feet  I  fling 

My  white  elk  robe  and  blanket  of  blue, 
And  my  beaded  pouch,  and  my  wampum  string, 

And  my  mantle  all  fringed  with  scalp-locks  too. 
But  my  eagle's  plumes,  that  I  won  in  the  fight, 

Shall  slumber  with  me ;  and  when  I  cross 
The  war-trail  up  in  the  clouds  to-night, 

They  shall  wave  in  my  long  hair,  as  I  pass 
Through  the  gateways  beyond  in  the  crimson  light; 

And  the  Great  far  Spirit,  from  oft'  his  seat 
On  the  hurricane  cloud,  shall  hurry  to  greet 

The  hero  in, — and  the  Sachems  shall  say, — 
1  Open  the  gates  of  the  morning  wide: 
The  gates  of  the  morning, 
Gold  and  red, 


86  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

To  the  brave  that  on  his  war-steed  rides, 
With  his  eagle-feathers  of  white  and  grey.' 

"So  brothers,  my  favorite  mustang  call, 

From  the  fields  where  the  blue^topped  grasses'  bend; 
He  hath  borne  me  oft  in  the  chase  and  fight, 

And  his  fearless  step  has  outstripped  the  wind ; 
Ye  shall  gear  him  proudly,  and  gear  him  well — 

In  his  crimson  girths  and  his  feathered  crest — 
For  1  and  my  steed  in  the  pale  moon's  light 
Must  gallop  far  and  fast  to-night, 

For  leagues  and  leagues,  toward  the  misty  west! 
Ye  shall  hear  the  clank  of  his  hoof-beats  ring 

Through  the  blue  arch  yonder ;  and  when  we  tread 

The  thunder-cloud,  ye  shall  hear  aloft 
The  roll  of  my  footfalls  echoing, 

And  the  downward  gleam  of  my  tomahawk's  flash 
On  the  fiery  tips  of  the  lightning's  wing;  * 

And  when  the  wind  in  the  cedar-tops 

Talks  hoarsely,  and  shakes  their  boughs  amain, 
Ye  shall  know  that  the  ancient  warriors  ride 
Abreast  o'er  their  far  off  trails  again. 

i 

"Let  me  sing  my  death-song — here  among 
The  ancient  hemlocks  that  sob  and  bow, — 


*  The  Indian  believes  that  the  lightning  is  the  flashing  of 
tomahawks  of  the  Sachems. 


F ORES!  RUNES.  87 

They  are  grieving  because  in  the  clouds  beyond 

To-pe-kah's  sun  is  waning  low; 
Because  his  place  will  be  still  and  lone 

At  evening  around  the  council-fire: 
Warriors,  the  sun  is  almost  down, 

Point  well  your  arrows,  braves,  and  fire ! 
But  first  let  me  bind  the  eagle's  plumes 

Fast  on  my  brow,  lest  the  west  wind's  breath, 
That  sweeps  o'er  the  happy  hunting  grounds, 

Should  waft  them  away  o'er  the  prairie  heath. 
The  night-owl  calls,  with  his  loud  too-hoo ; 

My  sun  is  down !     Warriors,  T  go 

Up  the  shining  trail  of  the  wa-wa's  track ! 
Call  me  not  back !    Call  me  not  back !" 


OLD  YELLOW  THUNDER'S  RIDE.* 

There  was  tempest  in  the  waters; 

And  like  the  roll  of  guns 
From  some  dismantled  fortress, 

The  thunder  rattled  on ; 

*  This  old  veteran,  whose  portrait  hangs  in  the  State 
Historical  Society's  gallery,  died  in  1874,  on  the  Wisconsin 
river,  above  Portage.  He  was  over  one  hundred  years  old, 
and  quite  a  hero  in  his  day;  he  was  chief  of  the  Winneba- 
goes,  then  a  powerful  tribe. 


88  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

And  from  unbolted  caverns 

Leaped  the  disfranchised  waves, 

That  writhed,  and  foamed,  and  tumbled, 
Down  to  their  billowy  graves. 

'Twas  a  carnival  of  tempest, 

And  the  frightened  forest  broods 
Hied  them  quickly  to  their  coverts 

In  the  leafy  solitudes; 
But  the  great  grey-headed  eagle, 

Peering  from  her  nesting  tree 
Where  the  gnarled  limbs  of  the  cedars 

Told  many  a  century — 

Sat  and  laughed,  across  the  waters, 

At  the  wild  winds'  maddened  roar, 
As  it  bowed  the  olden  hemlocks 

And  the  ancient  sycamore; 
Sat  and  laughed,  and  screamed  defiance 

To  the  billows  as  they  tore 
From  their  limestone-grated  dungeons, 

On  old  Winnebago's  shore. 

From  out  his  lodge  of  driftwood 

The  Sachem  of  the  lake 
Answered  the  strange  bird's  weird-like  screech 

With  spectral  echo  back, — 
"Bird  of  the  storm,  I  greet  thee; 


FOREST  R  UNES.  89 

In  my  painted  bark  canoe 
I  will  talk  with  thee  upon  the  waves, 
And  the  mighty  Manitou, 

When  his  footstep  passes  by  us, 

Will  bid  the  mad  waves  keep 
The  skiff  of  Yellow  Thunder, 

Out  alone  upon  the  deep." 

Wrapping  his  deer-skin  round  him, 

In  his  brawny  hand  he  clenched 
His  painted  paddle,  while  the  foam 

His  feathered  scalp-locks  drenched; 
And  like  the  sea-bound  nautilus 

Breasting  the  billow's  crest, 
Rode  the  skiff  of  Yellow  Thunder 

On  the  angry  waters  cast. 

O'er  the  muttering  lake  rebounding 

Sped  silently  his  craft, 
Beneath  the  ancient  cedars, 

Where  the  eagle  sat  and  laughed; 
Past  the  mounds  where  lay  and  slumbered 

'Mid  the  tempest  and  the  calm, 
Braves  and  warriors,  all  unnumbered, 

Listening  to  the  old  lake's  psalm. 

Still  unsilenced  rolled  the  thunder, 
Still  unpaled  the  lightning  swept; 


90  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

But  that  frail  boat,  unaffrighted, 
O'er  the  wrathful  billows  leaped — 

Down  the  river  of  the  Foxes, 
Where  the  mad  waves  gallop  on 

Like  war-steeds  to  the  contest, 
When  the  battle  has  begun. 

With  his  paddle  yet  unflinching 

Firmly  planted  in  the  rock, 

Stood  erect  old  Yellow  Thunder, 

Dauntless  as  the  forest  oak. 
I 

"Spirit  of  the  storm,"  he  muttered, 
"Give  me  strength  and  give  me  prowess; 
Strength  to  ford  these  noisy  waters 

With  my  fragile  skiff  of  bark ; 
Chain  thy  fitful  forks  of  lightning — 
Talk  in  whispers  to  the  billows, 

Bid  them  to  thy  footfalls  hark; 
O'er  these  wild  tempestuous  rapids 

Guide  me  e'er  the  night  grows  dark!" 

"See,  I  give  thee  strings  of  wampum, 
Scarlet  cloth  and  heron's  feathers; 
Shining  beads  and  painted  arrows 

In  the  foaming  floods  I  fling; 
Pilot  well,  and  pilot  surely, 
And  my  little  bark  of  birch-wood 

Safely  to  my  wigwam  bring!" 


FOREST  RUNES. 

Then  his  quivering  paddle  loosening, 

Dashed  he  o'er  the  foaming  verge, 
And  his  staunch  craft  floated  onward 

Like  a  curlew  on  the  surge; 
And  the  forests,  as  he  passed  them, 

Rocking  wildly  on  their  thrones, 
Bowed  in  homage  to  the  warrior 

In  his  crest  of  eagle's  plumes. 


There  were  stars  upon  the  waters 

When  that  red  canoe  of  birch, 
Still  upon  the  topmost  billow 

Holding  yet  its  fearless  perch, 
Down  the  river  of  the  Foxes 

Halted,  as  the  moon  rode  in, 
Where  the  great  Kaukalin  rushes 

Mid  its  clumps  of  evergreen. 

And  the  night-owl  in  the  hemlock 
Screamed  aloft  his  loud  too-hoo, 

As  that  phantom  bark  of  birchwood 
Through  the  rapids  glided  through; 

And  the  torches  from  the  wigwams, 
O'er  the  tossing  surges  sent, 

To  their  bands  of  swarthy  sentinels 

A  weirdish  glitter  lent . 
6 


92  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

"Brothers,"  said  the  storm-drenched  sachem, 
"Give  me  food  and  give  me  blankets; 
Light  the  peace-pipe  at  the  embers, 

Safe  my  painted  paddles  keep; 
I  have  seen  the  mighty  rapids, 
Ridden  on  the  steeds  of  tempest — 
Whispered  with  the  Great  far  Spirit 

Out  upon  the  noisy  deep; 
Spread  the  bearskin  near  the  fire-log 
Till  the  morning  lights  the  forests, 
For  the  Winnebago  Sachem 

Waxeth  weary!  let  him  sleep!" 

1876. 


THE  GATHERING  OF  THE  SACHEMS., 

Crimson  and  gold,  in  the  forests  old, 
The  maples  their  royal  flags  unrolled, 
And  the  sun  went  down  in  the  smoky  west, 
Like  a  warrior  robing  himself  for  rest; 
And  far  in  the  cedars,  loud  and  shrill, 
Piped  up  the  noisy  whip-poor-will, 
At  the  hush  of  eve  when  all  was  still. 

Far  over  the  lake,  just  flushed  with  flame, 
The  muffled  murmur  of  paddles  came; 


FOREST  RUNES.  93 

And  the  coves,  where  the  rustling  wild-rice  grew, 
Were  flecked  with  many  a  bark  canoe : 

And  the  snake-brake  tangled  along  the  shore 
With  moccasined  feet  was  trampled  o'er, 
When  the  Sachems  came  that  autumn  day 
To  the  gorgeous  woods,  in  their  bravery. 

Beneath  the  council  tree  *  that  sprung 
To  its  mossy  throne  when  the  earth  was  young; 
Where  their  grey-haired  sires  their  war-talk  gave 
By  the  Winnebago's  tossing  wave ; 

Whose  boughs  through  the  hurricanes  had  stood 
Monarchs  of  that  grim  solitude; 

Then  floating  up  as  the  red  sun  set, 
The  chiefs  and  sachems  in  council  met. 

Fearlessly  out  rung  their  welcoming  shout, 
Waking  the  cedars  round  about; 
And  the  heron  up  from  the  brake  and  sedge 
Flew  far  to  the  distant  limestone  ledge ; 

And  the  wild  loon  laughed  in  his  stormy  glee 
As  he  gazed  on  the  weird-like  company. 

Up  from  the  rocks  of  the  tumbling  Fox, 
Whose  wave  at  the  sweeping  ages  mocks ; 


*  The  Council-tree  still  standing  on  the  shores  of  lake 
Winnebago. 


94    POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Where  the  hoot-owl,  startled  from  off  his  perch, 
Flew  past  the  prows  of  their  skiffs  of  birch: 
Up  from  the  Red-stone-quarries  south — 
From  the  dark  "Death's  Door,"  at  the  grim  lake's 
mouth; 
From  the  lone  Wisconsin's  pine-girt  shores, 
Where  the  panther  screams  and  the  eagle  soars. 

From   the    beach  where   the   crested  white   gulls 

sweep, 
Where  old  Michigan  rocketh  her  dead  to  sleep; 
From  the  Spirit-lake  with  its  beetling  steeps, 
Where  the  shadow  of  ancient  legends  creeps; 
From  the  grass-girt  mounds  where  the  braves  were 

held, . 
By  the  loon  and  the  heron  sentineled, — 

All  gaily  geared  in  their  belt  and  plume, 
The  chiefs  to  the  lake-side  council  come. 

And  the  hemlocks  sage,  that  for  many  an  age 
Had  guarded  their  fathers'  heritage, 
Bowed  low  their  helmets,  just  touched  with  flame, 
To  welcome  the  warriors  as  they  came; 

And  the  beeches  from  out  their  cloister  old 
Showered  down  on  their  pathway  a  flood  of  gold, 
On  the  sandy  shore  where  the  old  lake  rolled. 

Then  quickly  among  the  pine  boughs  crashed 
The  ringing  hatchet,  and  all  aghast 


FOREST  RUNES.  95 

Stood  the  startled  woods,  as  the  blaze  went  up 

Far  over  the  gloomy  cedar's  top, 

Waking  the  specters  that  glower  and  lurk 
Betwixt  the  gloaming  and  the  mirk. 

With  his  bear-skin  cloak  from  the  knotted  oak 
Swaying  and  swinging  as  he  spoke, 
And  his  brown  neck  hung  with  the  wampum  strings, 
And  the  circlet  of  mottled  eagles'  wings — 
With  brow  where  the  lurking  thunder  slept, 
Old  Grizzly  Bear  from  his  lair  had  crept; 
And  the  words  like  wrangling  billows  broke 
From  the  old  chief's  lips,  while  thus  he  spoke, — 

"Wherefore,  O  braves,  with  your  bows  unbent, 
Sit  ye  and  glower  o'er  the  embers  spent, — 
Counting  the  feathers  that  ye  took 
From  the  eagle's  nest  upon  the  rock? 
When  yonder,  upon  the  southward  trail, — 
Where,  singly  and  still  as  the  creeping  snail, 

Our  braves  through  the  slumbering  forests  stole, — 
Last  night,  with  their  torches  all  aflare, 
A  pale-faced  host,  in  their  battle-gear, 
Stole  past  the  haunts  of  the  sleeping  bear? 

'Tis  well  that  'neath  your  idle  feet 
Lie  the  ancient  braves  in  their  quiet  sleep, 
Or  these  solemn  woods  would  blaze  to-night 


96    POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

With  spear  and  tomahawk,  glistening  bright, 
And  the  war-whoop  echo  from  height  to  height! 
Will  ye  barter  for  strings  of  painted  beads 
The  ground  where  the  Great  far  Spirit  treads, 
Where  his  footsteps  sleep  in  the  rocks  and  stones, 
And  his  whispers  are  heard  in  the  old  lake's  moans? 
Strike,  lest  ye  waken  his  ire  and  rage, 
And  from  your  ancient  heritage 
He  sweep  you  away  with  his  hurricane  breath, 
Like  the  grasses  that  shrivel  upon  the  heath." 
*  *  *  *  *  * 

Crimson  to-day,  in  the  forests  old, 
Have  the  maples  their  royal  banners  rolled ; 
And  the  ancient  elm,  by  the  old  lake's  shore, 
Stands  as  it  stood  in  the  days  of  yore- 
All  decked  in  its  regal  robes  of  flame, 
As  when  that  elfish  caravan 
Of  forest  sachems  to  council  came, 
Beyond  the  hill-tops  and  over  the  plain. 

But  no  heron's  plumes,  'mid  its  branches  lost, 
Flutter  aloft  'neath  the  eagle's  roost; 
No  painted  war-club  is  raised  aloft 
O'er  the  noisy  waves  that  have  surged  and  chafed: 
The  hoary  cedars  have  bowed  and  bent 
To  the  winds  in  their  stormy  tournament. 
And  the  wa-wa's  nest  in  the  beds  of  rice, 
And  the  curlew  haunting  the  precipice, 


FOREST  RUNES.  97 

And  the  loon  amid  the  flags  and  sedge, 
That  crept  to  the  old  lake's  sandy  edge, — 
And  the  braves  that  in  their  wild  array, 
With  pomp  and  savage  heraldy 
Flocked  to  their  council — where  are  they? 

1876. 


WISCONSIN'S  FIRST LEGISLA1 URE. 

No  frescoed  corridors  or  fluted  column 

Waited  their  gaze,  who  through  the  tamarack  wild, 
From  prairie's  marge,  from  dim  woods  deep  and  sol- 
emn, 
Where  scarce  the  sunshine  through  the  hemlocks 
smiled — 

Toiled  their  lone  way,  blazing  the  trees  behind  them ; 

Breaking  the  branches  of  the  birch  and  fir, 
To  mark  their  trail  when  eve's  long  shades  should 
find  them 

Where  never  settler's  lamp  burned  faint  and  far. 

Rugged  their  bear-skin  coats — their  painted  snow- 
shoon 
Made  lordry  strides  along  the  forests  bare; 


98  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Where  the  tall  pines,  like  great  masts  on  the  ocean, 
Stood  up  all  scarred  with  fire  and  tempest's  war. 

The  panther  glared  on  them  with  fiery  eye-ball 
From  out  the  dim  ravines,  so  hushed  and  black; 

And  the  hoot-owl,  with  plumage  rough  and  piebald, 
Screamed  to  the  gray   wolf  prowling   o'er    their 
track. 

Yet  dauntlessly  through  wild  and  wold  they  traversed, 
Their  rifles  o'er  their  sturdy  shoulder  tossed, 

Massing  their  arguments  with  which  to  waken 
Those  pristine  halls,  whose  jagged  rafters  crossed, 

And  then  re-crossed  in  marvelous  architecture, 
Worthy  a  cruder  age,  so  long  gone  by; 

Filling  the  soul  with  fanciful  conjecture 
What  era  claimed  their  rude  priority. 

Staunch  souls,  and  brave  were  they  whose  rugged 
cohorts 

Marshalled  themselves  upon  the  rough-hewn  floors ; 
The  wind-racked  forum,  where  they  met  in  conclave, 

The  people's  choice—the  land's  ambassadors. 

Souls  stern  and  strong,  hewn  from  the  ancient  quar- 
ries, 
Whence  were  hewn  giants  in  the  elder  days ; 


FOREST  RUNES.  99 

Firm  as  the  iron-wood  in  their  lordly  forests; 

Whose  words,  when  waked,  the  pliant  mass  could 
sway — 

As  marsh-grass  in  the  rushing  tempest  shaken, 
Or  maize  before  the  prairie  whirlwind  bent; 

Whose    voice    had  wondrous  power  to  rouse   and 
waken 
Long  echoes,  sweeping  on,  omnipotent. 

'Twas  thus,  with  strokes  clear  as  from  their  own  axes, 
Were  cleft  the  bastions  of  the  sturdy  west; 

Whose  granite  corner-stone  still  firmer  waxes, 
Though  surge  and  surf  its  rocky  front  resist. 

Patient  they  traced  the  marge  of  coming  cities, 
Bounding  the  wilderness  with  bolt  and  bar: 

And  where  the  cat-bird  chimed  her  dolorous  ditties, 
Hearing  the  hum  of  noisy  marts  afar.- 

Mosses  and  grasses  over  them  are  lying, 
Dismantled  forests  shivered  at  their  feet; 

But  every  wind  across  the  old  tracks  flying 
In  solemn  reverence  their  names  repeat! 


ioo  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 


THE  OLD  NORTHWESTERN  BRA  VES. 

They  slumber  well !  The  nightmare  of  the  ages 
Breaks  not  their  dream,  who  in  their  birchen  shroud 

Sleep  on  unwaked, — the  forest's  vanished  sages 
Who  walked  the  hills  with  valiant  step,  and  proud. 

Still  slumber  they  within  the  dim  mausoleum 

Of  greenwood    minsters,    'neath   their   chanceled 
aisles, 

Lulled  by  the  anthems  bursting  deep  and  solemn — 
The  anthem  of  the  waves,  that  all  the  while, 

Through  the  far  yesterdays,  so  long  departed, 
Have  kept  their  watches  by  the  olden  shore, 

Though  the  rude  warriors — stern  and  iron-hearted — 
To  their  wild  surgings  answer  back  no  more. 

No  more  the  clash  of  glistening  tomahawks  waken 
The  screeching  owl  from  off  her  nestling  tree; 

No   more   the   war-whoop   through   the   brush   and 
bracken 
Calls  up  the  forest's  wild  artillery. 

No  more  with  torch  and  flambeau  down  the  river 
Dances  at  eventide  the  light  canoe;   . 


FOREST  RUNES.  101 

No  more  the  sassafras  and  sumach  quiver 

With  moccasined  footsteps  lightly  flitting  through. 

Their  ruths  and  wrongs  the   tides   have  hushed  to 
quiet : 

Their  stormy  chronicles  about  them  sleep; 
And  the  untethered  winds  in  their  mad  riot 

Sink  soft  and  low  as  o'er  their  graves  they  sweep. 

O,  weird  and  silent  sepulchres,  unmarbled, 
Must  ye  be  dumb  and  voiceless  to  the  last? 

Shall  no  staunch  oak — no  song-bird  that  hath  warbled 
Adown  the  war-trails  of  the  misty  past — 

Sing  us  your  idyls,  dim  and  untranslated — 

The  wild  heroic  idyls  passed  away? 
For  which  the  patient  years  so  long  have  waited, 

The  tangled  legends  of  the  elder  day? 

Unreverently  we  dare  not  tread  the  heather 
Beneath  whose  bloom  unsceptered  princes  lie ; 

Our  shoes  from  oft' our  feet  we  lay,  and  wander 
Like  awe-struck  pilgrims,  to  a  cloister  nigh. 

Guard  well!  ye  golden  elms  and  sombrous  birches, 

The  ancient  clansmen  sleeping  at  your  feet; 
Whose     whitened     bones     the     restless    lake-wave 
bleaches, 
Whose  rhymes  and  runes  the  wintry  winds  repeat. 

1877. 


io2  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 


SOJVS  OF  THE  SACHEMS. 

Gone  from  our  hills  are  tawny  chief  and  clansman,    . 

Gone  from  our  forests  battle-ax  and  spear; 
Gone  from  our  lake-sides  birchen  lodge  and  wigwam, 

With  winding  hunter's  trail  in  ambush  near. 

Gone  from  their  feudal  halls  among  the  beeches, 
Their  lone  cathedrals  where  the  torrents  rush ; 

Their  hunting-grounds  along  the  pathless  prairies 
Where  silence  reigns  with  an  eternal  hush. 

We  ask  the  stars  to  point  us  to  their  war-trails, 
We  ask  the  winds  to  tell  us  where  they  sleep; 

But  only  tempest  answers  unto  tempest, 

And   drones   their   dirge  in   measures  hoarse  and 
deep. 

Lords  of  the  wilds!  whose  dynasty  lies  shivered 

Beneath  the  civilizers'  ruthless  tread, 
Whose  archives  'neath  our  battlements  lie  buried, 

Whose  monuments  beneath  our  feet  are  laid. 

Their  deeds  have  passed  from  off  the  page  of  story: 
Only  their  names  we  call  by  stream  and  grot; 

Only  their  ghosts  we  see  all  gray  and  hoarv, 
But  feathered  chief  and  sachem  answer  not. 


FORES T  R  UNES.  i 03 

But  now  their  sons — like  lonely  cedars  rising — 
Among  the  desolate  cliffs,  by  sobbing  waves, — 

Ask  for  a  standing-place  where  they  may  linger 
Beside  the  ashes  of  their  father's  graves. 

They  cross  with  halting  feet  our  marble  thresholds, 
And  ask  for  foot-room  in  our  classic  halls, 

Where  their  impassioned  souls,  so  late  awakened, 
May  read  earth's  lore,  so  dim  and  mystical. 

Shall  we  not  fling  wide  open  on  their  hinges 
The  cloistered  doors,  locked  to  the  forest  sage? 

And  o'er  the  wrecks  of  generations  vanished 
Mete  out  to  them  our  higher  heritage? 

Scions  of  hierarchies  long  lost  and  withered, 

Children  of  nations  faded  in  the  mist; 
Across  the  mossy  thresholds  of  the  ages, 

By  motley  tribes  trod  with  such  hurrying  haste — 

We  clasp  your  hands,  brown  with  the  forest  sunsets, 

On  Which  the  Manitou  his  signet  pressed, 
And  bid  you  carve  your  name  among  the  granites 
That  crown  the  hill-tops  of  your  ancient  west. 

1877. 
V 


io4  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 


LORDS  OF  THE   WLLDEKNESS. 

Come  from   your  hiding-place,  lords  01   the  wilder- 
ness! 

Come  from  your  fortresses  hidden  by  brake; 
Where  in  the  solitude  hatches  the  thunder-bird, 

Where  the  white  swan  skimmeth  over  the  lake. 

Come  as  ye  will,  all  unbraided  your  scalp-locks ! 

Tangled  the  wampum-strings,  carelessly  strung; 
Loose  o'er  your  shoulders  the  mantle  of  wolf-skin, 

Bristling  the  quivers  ye  carried  so  long. 

Sachem  and  Sagamore,  dash  through  the  gulches: 
File  through  the  pass  in  the  lonely  bayou; 

Stand  where  the  waterfall  leaps  o'er  the  precipice, 
Where  walks  at  midnight  the  great  Manitou! 

Stand  where  your  tomahawk  shall  flash  in  the  light- 
ning, 
Marshal  your  cohorts  the  boulders  among; 
Read  us  the  runes  of  unchronicled  ages, 

When  your  warriors  were  brave  and  the  cedars 
were  young. 


FOREST  R  UNES.  1 05 

Long  have  we  asked  of  the  tempest  to  tell  us 
Legends  of  dynasties  dumb  'neath  the  mold; 

Come  from  your  hiding-place,  Sachem  and  Sagamore, 
Read  us  the  records  of  nations  of  old. 

Sept.,  1877. 


THE  PRE-HISTORIC  GRA  VES. 

Tread  reverently  the  old  historic  graves 
That  sleep  forgotten  in  the  creeping  moss, 

Where  the  ancestral  oak  its  branches  waves 
And  sleepless  winds  of  centuries  blow  across. 

There  rest  the  braves  of  ages  that  are  past, 
Each  with  his  heron  plumes  upon  his  brow ; 

His  bended  bow  laid  near  him  'neath  the  grass, 
And  many  an  autumn's  leaves  above  him  now. 

Lords  of  a  race  whose  footsteps  from  the  soil 
The  hurricanes  of  time  sweep  fast  away; 

Gone  like  their  fallen  cedars,  that  erewhile 
Guarded  the  forests   in  the  ancient  day. 

Sleeping  along  their  war-trails,  that  we  tread 
Unthinkingly  to-day,  with  hurrying  feet: 

Sleeping  beneath  the  cities  that  have  spread 

Their  granite  piles  through  many  a  dusty  street- 


106  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Above  their  bleaching  bones,  whitening  beside 
The  wild  vociferating  lake  or  prairie's  verge ; 

They  slumber  on,  whatever  fate  betide : 

Unwaked,  unheeding,  through  the  storm  and  surge 

Then  reverent  tread  the  old  historic  graves 
That  sleep  forgotten  'neath  the  creeping  moss, 

Where  the  ancestral  oak  its  branches  waves 
And  sleepless  winds  of  centuries  blow  across. 


TREASURE  CITIES  OF  THE  WEST. 

Beneath  the  hoof-beats  of  our  steeds,  whose  clatter 

Rings  over  parapet  and  prairie  sod, 
Lie  the  weird  citadels  the  mold  has  buried — 

The  Herculaneums  that  the  ancients  trod! 

Wrapt  in  the  swathings  of  the  crumbling  cycles, 
Shrouded  in  cerements  that  no  hand  can  lift; 

We  wade  with  wildered  feet  above  the  portals 
Where  leaves  of  centuries  idly  toss  and  drift. 

We  rear  our  granite  piles  above  the  bastions 
Where  forest  lords  once  sate  in  royal  state, 


FOREST  R  UNES.  107 

And  drive  our  iron-racers  o'er  the  death-place — 
The  lone  sarcophagus  where  Sachems  wait!* 

We  desecrate  with  sacrilegious  fingers 
The  archives  of  the  nations  lost  in  mist : 

The  chronicles  the  Manitou  has  left  us 

Of  his  lost  children  scattered  o'er  the  waste. 

How  will  the  nations  still  to  come  absolve  us? 

How  will  the  sages  of  the  yet  to  be 
Rain  curses  on  the  race  whose  ruthless  clutches 

Have  stolen  tithes  from  time's  weird  legacy ! 

O  Goths  and  Vandals,  of  an  age  unreverent ! 

Who  gather  ingots  on  the  shrines  of  kings 
And  vend  their  shrouds  in  alien  marts  exulting, 

And  count  the  bags  of  zechins  that  they  bring. 

The  hurricane  that  mows  the  works  of  ages 
May  one  day  whistle  through  your  corridors, 

And  dance  among  the  ramparts  ye  have  builded, 
And  laugh  among  your  marble  sepulchres. 


*  Through  the  beautiful  "Hill  of  the  Dead."  on  the  west 
shore  of  Lake  Winnebago,  has  actually  been  cut  the  track  of 
the  Central  Railroad.  This  was  one  of  the  most  picturesque 
nooks  the  state  contained,  and  should  have  been  held  sacred 
for  posterity  through  all  generations. 
7 


io8  POEMS  OF  THE  WES1ERN LAND. 

Then  touch  with  tender  hands  the  mouldy  remnants 
That  lie  upOn  the  thresholds  of  the  past, 

Whose  architects  have  long  since  trod  the  pathway 
Toward  the  lodges  of  the  shadowy  west. 

Jan.  14,  1877. 


THE  SHIPS  OF  AS  TOR. 

Landing  at  the  old  fort,  Green  Bay,  Wis. 

Shivered  and  torn  came  the  ships  of  the  sailor, 
Down  irom  the  rent,  jagged  peaks  of  the  north; 

Flags  rudely  tattered  by  wind  or  by  hail,  or 
Shivered  by  hurricanes  marshalling  forth. 

Up  in  the  taffrail,  with  grey  locks  a-bleaching, 
Stood  the  old  trader  in  his  wolf-skin  bedight; 

Shrill  from  the  westland  the  wild  winds  came  screech- 
ing. 
Rattling  the  rigging  in  angry  despite.    , 

"Heave  to,  my  men,"  said  the  stalwart  commander, 
"Let  go  the  anchor,  there!  reef  in  the  sail!" 

Thankful  ye  ride  not  the  rough  sea  to-morrow, 
Out  in  the  teeth  of  this  threatening  gale. 


FOREST  R  UNES.  1 09 

So  by  the  old  fort,  down  there  on  the  bay-shore, 
Floated  the  rent  flags,  all  tattered  and  seamed, 

While  from  their  nests  flew  the  tall  crane  and  curlew, 
Up    from    the    crags    where    the    red    lightning 
gleamed. 

Filled  was  the  old  hulk  with  skins  and  with  peltries, 
Robbed  from  the  cra^-tops  the  great  lakes  beyond ; 

From  the  tenantless  forests,  the  lone  pathless  moun- 
tains, 
And  the  ice-bergs  that  slept  in  the  silence  profound . 

Down  through  the  hatchways  and  up  in  the  rigging, 
Clambered  the  red-painted  Sachems  and  chiefs ; 

On  their  brown  shoulders  the  panther  skins  bringing, 
Borne  down  the  streams  in  their  lithe  birch  wood 
skiffs. 

Tawny-cheeked  princesses  cautiously  wander, 
Wonderingly,  over  the  storm-weathered  craft; 

Brilliant  in  necklace  of  carmine  and  amber, 
Peering  like  sylphs  from  the  awnings  abaft. 

And  the  old  log-hewn  fort,  from  its  loop-holes  and 
bastions, 

Down  there  on  the  outermost  shore  of  the  bay, 
Looks  down  in  its  state  like  some  palace  barbaric, 

Which  holds  at  its  portals  a  weird  holiday. 


no  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 


SPARE  YE  THE  FOREST  TREES. 

Spare  ye  the  forest  trees, 

With  shreds  of  dynasties  about  their  tangled  roots — 
Those  guardsmen  of  the  shattered  centuries, 

Whose  broad  green  banner  o'er  their  ruin  floats. 

The  hieroglyphics  of  the  ages  past 

Are  written  on  their  shaggy  coat  of  bark, 

Though  neither  scald,  nor  seer  from  out  the  waste, 
Reads  us  their  superscription,  dim  and  dark. 

Spare  ye  the  sentinels  that  guard  the  graves 
Of  buried  clansmen, — battle-ax  and  bow 

Lie  moulding  'neath  their  canopy  of  leaves, 
While  footfalls  of  the  nations  come  and  go. 

The  Shasters  of  the  people  gone  to  dust 
Sleep  at  their  feet;  the  birchen  coffin-lid, 

Through  which  their  gnarled  and  knotted  roots  are 
thrust, 
Holds  jealously  the  secrets  of  the  dead. 

« 
Left  by  the  hurricane,  whose  hurrying  feet 

Swept  like  a  demon  through  the  forest  pass, 


FOREST  R  UNES.  1 1 1 

They  stand  where  snow-drifts  weave  their  winding- 
sheet, 
Or  summer  winds  drop  flowers  amid  the  grass. 

And  when  the  piles  our  pigmy  fingers  rear 
Lie  leveled  like  the  ant-hills  o'er  the  plain, 

Still  to  the  winds  their  foreheads  they  shall  bare 
Like  sceptered  monarchs  of  their  wide  domain. 

Then  spare  the  forest  trees,  that  watch  and  wait 
The  coming  cycles,  with  their  gaze  intent; 

Nor  dare  with  sacrilegious  hands  to  desecrate 
Those  hoary  records  of  the  Omnipotent. 

Sept.,  1877. 


THE  OLD  PIONEERS. 

Brave,  dauntless  hearts,  whose  clear  unclouded  vision 
Looked  boldly  out  across  the  untraversed  waste, 

And  mapped  their  cities  in  the  pathless  forests, 
And  by  the  lake-shores,  limitless  and  vast. 

Men  of  broad  souls,  who,  wearied  with  the  chafing 
With  narrow  minds,  and  creeds  so  circumscribed — 

Built  for  themselves  a  lineage  'mong  the  prairies, 
On  the  staunch  oaks  their  heraldries  inscribed; 


ii2  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

And  through  the  arid  summers  and  the  winters 

Toiled  for  the  generations  yet  to  come, 
And   flecked  the  hills  with  oak-ribbed   schools  and 
temples, 
And   filled   the   valleys   with   their   vine-wreathed 
homes. 

The  frost  is  on  their  locks  to-day,  and  feebly 

Droop  their  tall  forms,  so  strong  in  days  of  yore; 

We  meet  them  on  the  highways  as  we  wander 
Like  stalwart  pines  by  hurricanes  swept  o'er. 

The  marts  they  planned,  the  cities  they  have  builded, 
Loom  o'er   their   heads,   and   now  their  footsteps 
trend 

Toward  those  silent  cities  on  the  hill-side, 

Whose  mournful  cypress  to  the  sad  winds  bend. 

Brave,  loyal  hearts !  their  monuments  are  chiseled 
On  every  hill-top  where  the  sunsets  fall; 

Their  obelisks  are  carved  the  broad  state  over, 
From  humble  cot  to  marbled  capital. 

And  jealously  we  watch  the  scathing  winters 
That  toy  too  rudely  with  their  locks  of  snow, 

And  wonder  if  the  land  in  long  to-morrows 
Can  fill  their  places  when  they  shall  be  laid  low. 

1877. 


FOREST  RUNES.  113 


WINTER  ON  THE  FOX  RIVER. 

Old  Winter,  sits  throned  on  the  beautiful  Fox, 
With  his  white  robes  of  ermine  strewed  over  the  rocks; 
And  the  voice  of  his  winds,  whistling  over  the  waves, 
Like  the  song  of  a  witch  from  her  hollow  oak  caves. 

The  old  trees  bowed  lowly  their  beautiful  head, 
As  the  king  of  the  tempest  in  majesty  sped ; 
And  the  sered  leaves  came  down  in  a  torrent  of  gold 
To  carpet  a  path  for  the  monarch  of  olcfc 

The  moss-channeled  brook  that  roll'd  down  from  the 

hill 
And  over  the  bank  where  the  beech-nut  tree  fell, 
Stopped  short  in  itsgamboling  and  murmured  no  more, 
When  the  foot  of  the  tyrant  fell  harsh  on  its  shore. 

But  lo!  thou  pale  ghoul  from  the  white  frosted  sea, 
There's  a  wild  wave  that  yieldeth  not  even  to  thee: 
There's  a  stream  that  defies  thee,  and  mocks  with  its 

roar 
The  spells  thou  hast  flung  o'er  its  beautiful  shore. 


ii4  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Boast,  boast  if  thou  wilt  of  thy  trophies  of  pride, 

On  the  floods,  where  the  ice-reefs  and  snow-moun- 
tains glide, 

Where  the  blanched  mast  stands  up  like  a  sprite 
'mong  the  waves, 

And  the  Polar  ghosts  sport  o'er  the  mariner's  graves. 

But  know  that  the  flood  of  the  red-man  shall  pay 
No  homage  to  thee,  or  thy  tempest  to-day, 
For  still,  in  derision,  its  rapids  shall  roar 
Untamed  and  unfettered  as  ever  before: 
To  mock  thee  enthroned  in  thy  pomp  on  its  shore. 

i863. 


BATTLE  DAYS. 


BATTLE  DAYS. 


MISSING. 

Darling,  come  back!  the  crimson  setting  sun 
Tints  the  red  sumach  in  the  forest  way; 

And  thro'  the  tangled  paths  the  fading  leaves 
Of  royal  maple  wantonly  do  stray. 

The  breath  of  early  spring-time  has  gone  by; 

The  summer  roses  faded  'neath  our  feet — 
And  soon  the  wintry  winds,  unfeelingly, 

O'er  our  accustomed  haunts  will  toss  and  beat. 

How  long!  how  long!  across  those  southern  hills 
With  pallid  cheeks  and  wet  eyes  must  we  look 

To  catch  the  shadow  of  thy  manly  form 

That  from  our  arms  the  angry  war-drum  took. 

Alas !  the  dreary  dungeon's  heavy  door 

Shuts  out  the  hopes  that  wing  their  way  to  thee, 

And  slowly  crawl  along  the  days  and  hours, 
And  then,  within  that  prison-pen  they  say 


n8    POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

In  some  lone  midnight  watch  they  laid  thee  down — 
Our  darling  and  our  strength — and  life  grew  black, 

And  hearts  sobbed  on  and  broke  since  thou  wert  gone ! 
Gone  from  our  love !  no,  never  to  come  back. 

We  hear  the  wild  bells  ring  along  the  shore —  - 
We  see  the  old  flag  sweep  the  hills  again; 

We  watch  the  hosts  returning  home — but  o'er 
Our  souls  there  sweeps  a  wild  tumultuous  pain. 

Thy  step  is  not  with  theirs — thy  smile  no  more 
Will  sweetly  light  the  household  hearth  at  eve; 

We  hear  the  stately  horseman  passing  by, 
But  we,  alas!  no  welcoming  shout  can  give. 

O  winds,  that  rock  those  southern  pines  at  night, 
Will  ye  not  tell  us  where  our  darling  lies? 

Far  through  these  blinding  tears  we  strain  our  sight; 
Speak  to  us  of  him  in  your  hushabys. 

But  the  wild  winds  from  out  the  southern  pines 
Send  forth  their  answer,  "Out  in  the  beyond — 

Soothed  by  a  softer  cadence  than  our  rhymes — 
Your  darling  wanders,  the  still  streams  among! 

His  voice  takes  up  the  psalm  he  learned  on  earth — 
Learned  through  the  darker  mystery  of  woe ; 

And  if  ye  listen  well,  its  seraph  note 

May  cheer  your  path  till  ye  are  called  to  go." 


BATTLE  DAYS.  119 


STAR  VED  IN  HIS  CELL. 

1 
O,  wind  of  the  west!  sad  wind  of  the  west! 

Why  brought  ye  not  to  me  the  prayers  of  my  dar- 
ling? 
They  tell  me  they  laid  his  young  brow  to  its  rest 
Long  ago,  long  ago!  when  the  red  leaves  were  fall- 
ing; 
And  now  come  the  days  of  the  storm  and  the  snow, 

And  yonder,  I  know, 
The  white  drifts  above  him  are  mocking  rny  woe! 

Starved!    Starved  in   his  cell!    how  I   listened   and 
waited, 
At  morn,  and  at  midnight,  for  whispers  to  come; 
How  I  watched  through  the  casement  for  some  star 
belated, 
To  guide  through  the  darkness  my  precious  one 
home; 
But  now,  his  gaunt  features,  all  whitened  and  wan, 

Stare  at  me  alone! 
Heaven  light  the  dark  paths  for  the  desolate  one ! 

O,  wind  of  the  west!  wild  wind  of  the  west! 

Why  brought  ye  not  to  me  my  darling's  last  kisses  ? 
I  know  that  he  left  to  your  faithless  behest 


i2o  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Fond  words  for  his  loved  ones,  and  earnest  caresses; 
Sweet  memories,  that  might  through  the  saddened 
heart  glow ! 

But  all  that  I  know 
Is, — he  died  in  his  cell!  O,  my  God,  is  it  so? 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  OLD  BATTLE 
FLAGS. 

From  the  land  of  the  everglades  homeward  we  bring 
them, 
The   storm-battered   flags   of  the  stripes  and  the 
stars , 
And  proudly  aloft  o'er  the  hill-tops  we  fling  them — 
The  old  flags  we  followed  with  prayers  and  with 
tears. 

Long  moons  have  gone  down  since  the  bugle-blast 
quavered 
Wide  over  the  prairie  and  down  by  the  sea, 
And   the   fields  have  been  reaped  and  the  harvests 
been  gathered, 
And  the  weeds  seeded  over  the  graves  of  the  free. 

Battalions  of  brave  ones  have  gone  to  their  slumber, 
The  hoarse   drums   have  beat  and  the  mourning 
bells  tolled; 


BATTLE  DAYS.  121 

The  cannon  has  waked  up  the  coast  with  its  thunders, 
And  the  blaze  of  the  cities  toward  heaven  hath  been 
rolled.  * 

But  the  Captain  of  Hosts  laid  his  hand  to  the  battle, 
And  the  foemen  were  still  as  the  specters  of  night; 

And  hushed  was  their  boasting  and  silenced  their  rat- 
tle, 
And  dumb  were  their  legions  with  sudden  affright. 

And  now  o'er  the  mountains,  all  hallowed  and  hoary, 
We  fling  to  the  winds  the  torn  flags  of  the  free; 

They  shall  live  in  our   hearts — they  shall  linger   in 
story, 
As  long  as  the  storm-winds  surge  over  the  sea. 


DIRGE  OF  THE  TEAR  1863. 

Bells  of  the  North!  toll  forth,  toll  forth! 

In  sad  and  solemn  strain, 
For  the  brave  whose  sleep  is  long  and  deep, 

And  who  never  shall  waken  again ! 

Dead,  in  the  coastland  along  by  the  sea, 

And  dead  in  the  everglade  swamp; 
Dead,  in  the  forest  and  mountain  gorge, 


122  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

And  down  in  the  dungeon's  damp! 

While  alone  in  their  tears 
The  weary  must  sit  by  their  hearths  to-night, 

And  gaze  down  the  desolate  years ; 
Bells  of  the  North!  toll  forth,  toll  forth! 

And  mingle  your  dirge  with  theirs! 

Bells  of  the  North !  ring  out,  ring  out, 

In  a  peari  loud  and  shrill — 
Through  the  mighty  heart  of  the  stricken  land 

Bid  gladder  pulses  thrill, 
For  not  in  vain  lies  the  crimson  stain 

On  the  snow-drifts,  white  and  still. 

The  sob  that  the  broad  plains  echo  forth 

Far  out  on  the  midnight  air, 
Some  other  day  shall  to  anthems  swell 

For  the  listening  seas  to  hear; 
And  the  banner  float  o'er  the  mountain-top, 

With  never  a  missing  star, — 
With  never  a  shackle  to  rattle  and  ring 

Its  curses  on  our  ear. 

The  watching  centuries  stand  and  wait 
With  their  massive  gates  unswung, 

Till  the  new  year  bring  its  records  in ; 
And  the  crusaders  have  sung 

Above  the  storm  and  the  cannonade, 


BATTLE  DAYS.  123 

A  nation's  freedom  song; 
For  with  blood  and  tears  must  the  right  prevail 
Since  ever  the  earth  was  young! 

With  blanching  cheek  and  with  clasping  hands 

Through  the  midnight  long  we  say, — 
"Father,  who  guided  the  destinies 

Of  the  nations  passed  away, 
Roll  back  the  wild  tempestuous  tides 

That  o.'ersweep  our  shores, — and  may 
The  watchman  yonder,  upon  the  tower, 

Foretell  a  peaceful  day!" 


UNCROWNED  HEROES  OF  THE  CEN- 
TURY. 

Have  ye  forgotten  how  the  tremulous  shiver 

Swept  through  the  land  that  panting  summer's  day, 

When  traitors  ranged  their  cohorts  on  our  coastland, 
Filling  our  frightened  shores  with  wild  dismay? 

Have  ye  forgotten  how  our  braves,  uprising 

From  cairn  and  cliff,  from  forest  cot  and  hall, 

Sprang  to  the  echo  of  the  bugle's  calling 

To  wrest  their  clutch  from  fort  and  arsenal? 
8 


i24  POEMS  OF  THE  WES1ERN  LAND. 

How,  when  the  red  sun,  through  the  west  departing, 
Stayed  pityingly  their  bayonet  tops  to  gild, 

They  lay  in  winnowed  rows  along  the  furrows, 
Like  swaths  of  grain  upon  the  harvest-field? 

How,  when  the  cannon's  throat  had  done  its  roaring, 
And  battered  flags  swept  homeward,  one  by  one, 

From  Sumter,  and  from  Moultrie's  sea-washed  bas- 
tion, 
From  Lookout  Mountain  and  from  Lexington, — 

When  to  the  roll-call,  waking  hill  and  valley, 

That  o'er  the  crags  and  clift-tops  wildly  smote,    * 

There  answered  but  a  handful  of  our  legions, 
While  many  through  the  silence  answered  not! 

And  now  their  battered  forms  upon  life's  highways 
We  meet,  amid  the  glitter  and  the  show ; 

With  prison-stories  writ  upon  their  faces 
And  battle-histories  furrowed  on  their  brow. 

O  nation,  prosperous  and  well  beloved, 
Must  these  stand  halting  at  the  city  gate — 

Striving  with  palsied  hand  and  fever-stricken 
To  wrest  a  morsel  from  the  grasp  of  fate  ? 

While  men  with  stunted  souls,  and  craven-hearted, 
March  to  the  cushioned  seats  and  take  their  place, 


BATTLE  DAYS.  125 

And  count  the  nation's  coin,  and  wear  her  baubles, 
Her  chains  of  gold,  her  ermine  and  her  lace? 

And  those  who  bore  the  people's  ragged  banners 
Crowd  at  your  thresholds,  as  the  crowds  go  by, 

And  shiver  in  the  tempests  of  December, 
Or  scorch  beneath  the  sultry  August  sky. 

Your  chiseled  heroes  mock  the  scornful  heavens — 
Your  granite  giants  rise  in  awful  state ; 

But  'mong  the  weeds  that  at  their  base  lie  gathered 
The  "uncrowned  heroes"  of  the  century  wait! 

1876. 


OUR  PEACE-OFFERING. 

Lincoln,  assassinated  April  14.,  1865. 

We  were  busy  hanging  the  banners 

From  the  steeple-height  and  dome — 
Hushed  was  the  cannonading, 

And  the  ranks  were  marching  home; 
Marching  along  through  the  highways, 

Through  pathways  long  and  dim, 
To  the  notes  of  the  drum  and  bugle, 

As  they  struck  the  nation's  hymn. 


126  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

We  had  sealed  the  cause  of  freedom 

With  our  hearts'  blood  in  the  strife — 
We  had  writ  it  in  the  mountain  gorge 

And  on  the  beetling  cliff; 
We  had  shouted  it  from  the  hill-tops, 

And  along  the  coastland's  sweep, 
Till  the  loud  waves  echoed  it  back  again 

With  their  thunderous  voices  deep. 

And  the  stately  ships  in  the  harbor 
Hung  their  torn  flags  from  the  mast, 

All  rent  and  scarred  by  the  shot  and  shell 
That  had  whistled  through  on  the  blast. 

We  had  waded  through  wild  Decembers 

In  the  trenches  or  the  marsh, 
We  had  buried  our  frozen  comrades     * 

By  the  midnight's  ghostly  torch ; 
We  had  pined  in  the  Southern  dungeons 

Where  the  famine  left  its  trace, 
And  now  in  the  gladsome  April  days 

Came  God's  sweet  gift  of  Peace! 

Peace!  how  the  children  sang  it 
On  the  green  hill-sides  the  while! 

How  the  organ  rolled  its  anthems 
Down  the  dim  cathedral  aisle; 

How  the  mother  wept  as  she  spoke  it 


BA1TLE  DAYS.  127 

By  the  graves  of  her  noble  slain, — 
"There  is  feace  in  the  land,  my  darlings, 
And  ye  have  not  died  in  vain!" 

But  down  'mid  the  land's  rejoicing, 

From  citadel  and  tower 
Came  the  echo  of  hoarse  bells  tolling, 

At  the  solemn  midnight  hour; 
And  we  looked  aghast  to  the  Eastland, 

And  we  gazed  afar  to  the  West, 
"What  woe  betides  the  land,"  we  said, 

"What  specter  outrides  the  blast?" 

We  gazed  in  each  other's  faces, 

All  blanched  with  a  strange  affright. — 
"Why  toll  the  bells  through  the  darkness 

O'er  the  joyous  land  to-night?" 
We  waited  with  eager  questioning, 

And  peered  down  the  silent  street: 
What  horror  smites  the  people 

That  they  stand  with  palsied  feet? 

And  a  grey-haired  sire  made  answer 

As  he  beat  his  lone  patrol, 
"The  land  is  fatherless  to-night! 

'Tis  meet  the  bells  should  toll!" 


128  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 


.  LNSCEPTERED. 
Abraham  Lincoln,  assassinated  April  14,  iS6j.s 

No  statelier  soul  than  thine  sleeps  'neath  the  gloom 
Of  old  Westminster,  with  its  hundred  aisles; 

No  nobler  peer  or  prince  of  power  claims  room 
'Neath  frescoed  arches,  where  the  sun  recoils. 

No  kinglier  form  than  thine  lies  swathed  in  pride 
Beneath  the  cerements  of  the  ages  gone; 

With  granite  obelisks  above  their  head, 
Forgotten  hieroglyphics  on  their  stone. 

The  stamp  of  royal  lineage  marked  thy  brow, 

So  worn  with  care,  so  fraught  with  problems  deep; 

So  haunted  with  a  nation's  destinies, 

Stealing  like  specters  through  thy  harassed  sleep. 

Yet  strong  to  meet  the  hazards  of  the  day — 
To  dare  the  angry  cyclones  as  they  beat 

All  through  the  fearful  night,  relentlessly, 

Shoreward  and  seaward,  past  thy  stormy  seat. 

We  heard  the  booming  cannon  rake  the  hills, 
We  saw  our  routed  armies  strew  the  plain; 


BATTLE  DAYS.  129 

We  watched  our  blazing  ships  whelmed  in  the  flood, 
Our  banners  riddled  in  the  leaden  rain ;     • 

And  then,  with  tear-dimmed  eyes  we  turned  to  thee — 
With  thy  wan  face  and  mute,firm  lips,  struck  dumb, 

Reading  with  patient  face  the  augury 

Writ  on  the  walls  of  time ;  while  there  alone, 

Upon  thy  silent  watch-tower,  pacing  slow, 
Counting  the  nation's  heart-throbs  as  they  fell 

Upon  the  palpitating  silence  low, 

Thy  footfalls  echoed  to  the  midnight  bell. 

O  great,  strong  heart,  perched  on  thy  storm-rent  cliff, 
To  watch  the  nation's  throes  of  agony! 

O  brave,  true  hand,  to  whom  the  pen  was  given 
That  bade  the  oppressed  ones  of  the  Lord  go  free ! 

We  ask  no  Scepter  for  thy  peerless  brow, 

No  heraldries  of  proud  historic  line; 
Thy  meed  of  fame  earth's  chroniclers  shall  write, 

And  freedmen's  tears  shall  gem  each  burning  line ! 

No  need  for  sculptors'  aid  to  mark  thy  sleep; 

The  unerring  chisel  of  the  century 
Shall  carve  thy  name  in  letters  broad  and  deep 

Upon  the  cliff-tops  of  eternity! 

March  4th,  1878. 


130  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 


PEACE! 

From  the  blue-bannered  hills  to  the  cliffs  of  the  ocean 
The  peace-flag,  majestic,  floats  over  the  main, 

And  across  the  broad  plains  in  a  joyous  commotion 
Battalions  of  brave  ones  flock  homewaYd  again. 

The  glad  land  breafks  out  in  a  thankful  ovation 

To  Him  who  rides  on  through  the  earthquake  and 
storm, 

For  the  blast  of  her  nostrils  hath  risen  and  shaken 
The  foe;  and  they  scattered  like  mists  of  the  morn. 

The  sad  years  have  passed  with  their  wild  cannon- 
ading, 

The  thunders  of  battle  have  died  on  the* breeze; 
The  tri-colored  banner  is  floating  triumphant 

'Mid  scepters  and  hierarchies  over  the  seas. 

Across  the  blue  hills  comes  the  flash  of  the  bayonet, 
The  echo  of  trumpets,  the  roll  of  the  drum ; 

And  the  broad  Westland  pours,  from  her  prairies  and 
forests, 
A  welcoming  hymn  to  her  veterans  home. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


ALONG  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

Summer  days  of  i8j8. 

The  land  had  gathered  its  harvests, 

The  golden  fruit  lay  piled 
In  the  glowing  orchards,  while  in  the  fields, 

Where  the  swarthy  laborers  toiled — 

The  cotton  whitened  like  fleeces 

The  wide  plantation  o'er, 
And  the  rice  creaked  on  its  heavy  stalk 

By  the  rich  bayous  near  the  shore. 

But  through  those  days  of  summer, 
Through  those  sultry  August  noons — 

Where  from  the  mangrove  and  the  pine 
The  oriole  piped  his  tunes, 

Came  an  awesome  shadow  creeping 
Along  the  river's  marge, 


134  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

And  sat  like  a  sheeted  ghost  of  doom 
'Mong  the  cities  on  its  verge. 

And  strong  men,  hushed  with  terror, 
Asked  'neath  their  bated  breath, 

"Will  the  grim  destroyer  walk  the  land? 
Shall  we  clasp  pale  hands  with  Death?" 

Still  hotter  and  sultrier  grew  the  days, 

And  still  the  specter  sate 
Unasked,  unbidden,  by  our  hearths; 

And  at  his  cruel  feet 

■  Dropped  down  our  beautiful  darlings — 
And  we  buried  them  from  our  sight; 
And  the  glorious  bloom  of  those  autumn  days 
Hid  not  our  woe  and  blight. 

The  rich  man  fell  in  his  palace, 

The  poor  man  by  his  hearth ; 
The  giddy  reveler  in  his  halls 

In  the  gay  saloons  of  mirth. 

The  priest  sank  down  at  the  altar, 
The  bride  by  the  marriage  bed, 

And  scarce  enough  were  left  at  their  posts 
To  carry  out  the  dead. 


MISCELLANE  O  US  POEMS.  135 

And  often  in  lonely  outskirts, 

Where  the  poor  their  woes  outbrave, 

Sank  mothers  with  only  little  ones 
To  hollow  their  lonely  grave. 

All  through  the  silent  watches 

Of  the  night,  there  came  and  went 
The  rumbling  wheels  of  the  death-carts, 

Like  hungry  ogres  sent 

■To  sweep  the  halls  of  the  stricken  land; 

While  we  stood  with  haggard  eyes 
Waiting  for  the  burning  lips  to  close, 

And  hush  their  agonies. 

'Twas  then  than  the  silent  cities 

Their  awesome  sabbaths  kept, 
And  the  grass  grew  up  on  the  marble  stair ; 

'Mid  fluted  columns  crept 

The  noisome  weeds,  and  the  watch-dog 

Howled  on  the  threshold  stone; 
While  only  the  cricket  chirped  on  the  hearth, 

Untenanted  and  alone! 

How  longingly,  as  we  panted  v 

In  that  charnel-house  of  death, 
We  watched  for  God's  coming  angels, 

Stealing  with  noiseless  feet 


136  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Through  the  doleful  streets,  whose  echoes 

Came  as  from  mouldy  tombs ; 
While  the  dead  lay  there  uncoffined, 

Forgotten  in  ghostly  homes. 

For  God's  sweet  coming  angels 

We  waited  night  and  day, 
Through  those  long  and  endless  watches, 

When  our  brown  locks  turned  to  grey. 

For  their  step  across  the  threshold 

And  their  footsteps  on  the  sand, 
As  they  came  with  help  and  mercy 

To  the  plague-bestricken  land. 

*  *  *  #  *  * 

The  land  has  gathered  her  harvests! 

The  reaper's  sheaves  lie  cast 
On  the  bare,  unsodded  hill-sides; 

Our  noblest  and  our  best! 

On  the  bare,  unsodded  hill-sides 
The  wealth  of  our  homes  is  laid; 

Heaven  send  us  the  russet  autumn  leaves 
To  cover  up  our  dead ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  137 


SCORCHED  IN  THE  TUNNEL. 

The  moonlight  fell  aslant  the  floor 

Upon  that  soft  October  eve, 
The  crimsoning  vines  about  my  door 

That  through  the  autumn's  long  reprieve 

Their  tangles  stayed  to  interweave, 
Just  sobbed  a  little  to  the  breeze— 

'The  warm  southwester,  as  it  swept 
Across  the  prairie, — while  below 

The  noisy  mart  its  Sabbath  kept. 

My  little  ones  with  wondering  eyes 

Watched  the  red  moon  come  sailing  up, 
And  painting  on  the  arid  skies 

With  burning  brush  her  horoscope, 
While  tangled  in  her  slanting  rays 

The  home-bound  ships  to  harbor  rode — 
Mowing  their  swath  across  the  lake, 
That  into  foaming  furrows  brake, 

All  flushed  as  with  a  trail  of  blood. 


One  tiny  head  upon  my  arm 

Had  dropped  its  silken  showers  of  gold, 
While  I  sat  marveling  if  the  spheres 


138  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

In  all  their  rounds  such  wealth  could  hold; 
When  quick  across  the  stifling  air 

The  great  bell  rang  from  out  the  tower, 
And  clang  and  clash  rose  deafeningly 

Upon  the  solemn  Sabbath  hour — 
.    Rocking  the  steeples  with  their  roar, 

And  seeming  to  the  stars  to  pour 
Rash  prayers  in  their  wild  agony. 

I  brushed  aback  the  tangling  vines 

And  gazed  the  leafy  labyrinth  through, 

Where  the  great  city  held  her  shrine 
'Mid  granite  fortresses,  and  lo! 

A  fiery  cyclone  in  the  East 
Jeered  mockingly  the  harvest  moon, 

And  laughing  at  the  frightened  bells 
Clanging  so  widely  out  of  tune, 

Strode  leaping  on  from  roof  to  roof; 

Mounting  the  battlements,  to  scoff 
At  all  the  frantic  crowds  below, 
Like  coast-waves  surging  to  and  fro. 

I  clasped  my  babes,  for  even  then 

The  hot  breath  flushed  my  pallid  cheek, 

Borne  onward  by  the  hurricanes 

That  galloped  past  me  fast  and  fleet; 

The  little  burnished  head  of  gold 
Upon  my  arm  hung  heavily; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  139 

Great  God!  how  should  I  launch  my  babes 
Afloat  upon  that  fiery  sea? 

Beneath  my  casement  surging  on 

As  though  by  cloven  demons  chased, 
The  multitude  rushed  madly  down 

To  where  the  turbid  river  washed. 
"Make  for  the  tunnels !"  rose  the  cry — 

The  scorching  billows  onward  tossed; 
And  'mid  the  crowd  tumultuously 
My  unresisting  babes  and  I 

Dashed  to  the  fiery  holocaust! 

The  heated  stones  beneath  our  feet 

Burned  like  some  lurid  crater's  bed, 
And  scrolls  of  flame  went  hissing  past 

Fresh  havoc  on  their  path  to  spread ; 
The  snorting  steeds  neighed  wildly  back 

To  the  mad  winds  that  screeched  and  tore, 
And  fainting  mothers  in  their  paths 

Sank  with  the  little  ones  they  bore; 
And  still  those  awful  bells  of  doom 

Rolled  dirges  from  their  granite  tower! 

We  fought  our  blinding  way  along 
Amid  that  hell  of  smoke  and  glare, 

Still  beating  back  with  frantic  hands 
The  sullen  specters  of  despair, 
9 


140  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Still  asking  mercy  of  the  flames 
That  darted  on  us  unaware, — 

Till  where  the  murky  tunnel  opes 
Its  caverns  'neath  the  river's  plash, 

With  one  wild,  desperate  bound  for  life, 
The  surging  thousands  wildly  crash! 

Packed  in  a  writhing  mass,  we  stood 

Like  felons  in  a  convict  ship; 
And  "Wciter,  water!"  rose  the  cry, 

In  tortured  tones  from  lip  to  lip, — 
And  overhead  the  river  rolled, 

The  boiling  river — smit  with  flame; 
And  underneath  the  panting  crowd, 

Asking  a  draught  that  never  came. 
When  downward  borne,  across  the  crypt, 
A  sheet  of  fire  its  barriers  leaped, 
And  on  the  helpless  ranks  it  swept ; 

The  mothers  and  the  little  ones, 

Begging  compassion  of  the  stones! 

I  strove,  my  God!  how  long,  how  long! 

I  strove  my  clinging  babes  to  shield, — 
To  shield  amid  the  trampling  throng, 

Rushing  like  horsemen  to  the  field; 
Till  down  beneath  their  iron  feet 

They  crushed  me  like  a  quivering  reed, 
And  then  the  light  went  out, — but  still 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  141 

That  fierce  crowd  trampling  overhead! 

They  tell  me  that  as  from  the  dead 
They  rescued  me.     Alas!  I  weep 
To  think  they  did  not  let  me  sleep ; 

For  when  my  eyes  unclosed  again, 
That  little  burnished  head  of  gold 
Lay  in  its  beauty — stifled,  cold ! 
Dropped  from  my  faint  arm's  circling  fold ! 


LOST  ON  THE  REEFS. 

On  the  wreck  of  the  Schiller ',  lost  April,  1S73. 

There  was  mirth  in  the  stately  cabin 

Of  that  grand  old  ship  of  the  line, 
As  she  ploughed  her  furrows,  long  and  deep, 

Across  the  trackless  brine; 
And  the  crimson  curtains  shivered 

With  the  dancers'  noiseless  tread, 
And  the  great  wheels  writhing  among  the  foam 

Their  snowy  pathway  made. 

She  was  bound  for  the  glorious  Rhineland, 

That  storied  land  of  old, 
With  strength  and  beauty  within  her  keep 

And  ingots  within  her  hold. 


i42  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

And  wherefore  should  doubt  o'ershadow, 

Or  omens  of  evil  be, 
When  no  thunder  growled  in  the  midnight  sky 

And  no  hurricane  threatened  a-lee, — 
And  the  old  ship's  bell  rang  strong  and  well 
From  her  bulwark  over  the  sea  ? 
O,  the  sea!  the  marvelous  sea! 
Man  spreadeth  the  sails  and  stretcheth  the  shrouds 

Of  his  royal  argosy; 
But  the  mighty  God,  he  keeps  the  keys 
Of  the  citadel  under  the  sea ! 

And  what  if  the  fog  was  heavy, 

And  what  it  the  clouds  grew  thick? 
Her  binnacle-lights  still  gleamed  aloft 

Across  her  oaken  deck. 
And  they  toasted  the  far-off  Fatherland, 

With  its  castles  tinged  with  the  sun, 
And  counted  the  moons  as  they  rose  and  set 

O'er  the  ocean,  one  by  one; 
And  they  said  to  the  winds,  "blow  ye  swift  and  fast, 

And  bear  us  nearer  home." 

But  amid  the  bars  of  the  music, 

That  chimed  with  the  dancers'  feet, 
A  sound  as  of  waves  from  their  caverns  loosed 

On  the  creaking  timbers  beat; 


MISCELLANEO  US  POEMS.  143 

And  the  stern-browed  captain  staggered 
With  a  face  that  was  ghastly  and  white, — 

"We  are  fast  on  the  rocks,"  he  hoarsely  said, 
"There  is  death  on  the  sea  to-night ! 

With  never  a  gleam  of  moon  or  star, 
And  never  a  beacon  light !" 

There  was  dread,  and  darkness,  and  terror 

On  that  grand  old  ship  of  the  line, 
With  the  breakers  a-shrieking  and  roaring, 

In  their  fury  all  the  time ; 
And  pallid  fathers  striving 

'Mid  the  wild  waves''  anarchy, 
On  rigging  or  spar  some  darling  to  bear 

From  old  ocean's  treachery; 
And  mothers  seeking  their  babes  that  slept 

In  their  berths  down  under  the  sea. 

In  vain  upon  the  taffrail 

The  brave  old  captain  stood, 
Challenging  there  with  his  dauntless  brow 

The  demons  of  the  flood, — 
Calling  his  mariners,  one  by  one, 

But  they  answered  him  never  a  word; 
Never  a  word  spoke  the  man  at  the  helm, 

Or  the  sentinel  on  his  guard! 
Only  the  wind  wailed  fierce  and  fast 

Across  the  mizzen-vard. 


i44  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

The  brazen  bell  through  the  watches  ' 

Of  the  long  night  tolled  and  tolled, 
And  the  heavy  guns  to  the  pitiless  sky 

Their  fearful  story  rolled ; 
But  never  a  message  of  mercy 

From  the  misty  headlands  crept, 
To  that  doomed  two  hundred  who  struggled  there 

Where  the  floods  their  orgies  kept — 
Where  they  sank  in  their  deep  sea  sepulchers, 

In  the  solemn  ocean  crypt. 

O,  the  sea!  the  treacherous  sea! 
Man  spreadeth  the  sails  and  stretcheth  the  shrouds 

Of  his  royal  argosy; 
But  the  mighty  God,  he  keepeth  the  keys 
Of  the  citadels  under  the  sea! 


THE  ARCTIC  MARINERS. 

Sir  John  Franklin  and  two  ships'  crezvs  left  England 
for  the  Arctic  land  in  184.5,  and  never  returned. 

The  morn  broke  bright  and  brilliantly 
As  that  broad  blue  flag  was  spread, 

And  the  last  cheer  sounded  o'er  the  sea, 
And  the  last  farewell  was  said. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.   '  H5 

A  stern  and  stormy  task  was  theirs— 
Where  the  icebergs  claimed  their  sway; 

Where  strange  birds  screamed  the  seaman's  dirge 
Through  the  long,  long  polar  day. 

But  a  wreath  of  fame  was  wove  for  them 

When  their  perilous  task  was  done; 
And  lightly  they  stretched  the  broad  blue  flag, 

And  gayly  they  journeyed  on. 

And  lightly  they  vowed  to  return  again 

To  the  island  amid  the  waves, 
And  to  rest  when  their  hardy  toils  were  o'er 

In  their  fathers'  ancient  graves. 

But  those  dauntless  words  that  the  breezes  bore 

To  hearts  on  the  listening  strand, 
Were  the  last  that  greeted  their  native  shore 

From  that  doomed  and  that  daring  band. 

They  say  that  the  red  sun,  mockingly, 

Still  shines  in  the  shivering  sky; 
That  the  pale  stars  beam  with  a  fitful  beam 

O'er  the  ice-reefs  proud  and  high. 

But  neither  the  sun  on  the  leafless  plain, 
Nor  the  stars  on  the  frozen  deep, 


146  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Nor  the  ice-crags  piled  o'er  that  Arctic  main 
Have  told  where  the  wanderers  sleep. 

And  there's  many  an  autumn's  leaves  turned  brown 

On  their  fathers'  ancient  graves ; 
But  that  broad  blue  flag  ne'er  shall  stream  again' 

O'er  that  island  amid  the>vaves! 

1850. 


THE   WATCHER  OF  THE  ICEBERGS. 

On  the  death  of  Lady  Franklin,  1875. 

Toll  dirges  from  the  minster  bells — 

Light  torches  in  the  chancel  dim ! 
Let  old  cathedral  organs  burst 

Into  a  grand  funereal  hymn! 
And  to  that  grand  funereal  hymn 

The  world  shall  send  her  sad  refrain, 
In  hallowed  gush  of  sympathy 

Across  the  mountain  and  the  main, 
Where  two  proud  oceans  toss  and  foam, 
Where  plantains  wave  or  snow-peaks  loom. 
Fair  watcher  of  the  icebergs  lone — 

For  thee  shall  fall  the  tender  tear, 

Sweet  lady  of  the  silver  hair! 


MIS CELLANEO  US  POEMS.  1 47 

We  mind  us  of  a  day  gone  by 

When  early  youth  was  on  our  cheek: 
On  thine  the  kiss  of  him  who  turned 

The  highways  of  the  North  to  seek ! 
And  all  the  flags  in  harbor  furled, 

And  all  the  loud  guns,  bade  God  speed, 
Alas!  unto  the  waiting  world 

On  every  cliff-top  taking  heed: 
Pausing  of  every  wind  that  blew 

To  question  and  to  intercede. 
No  signal  crossed  the  sea-mew's  track, 

No  voice  from  those  dim  solitudes, 

Where  walrus  herds  or  great  auk  broods, 
Across  the  rent  floes  drifted  back. 


And  so  through  all  the  lengthening  years 

Only  to  thy  strained  ear  there  crept 
The  shivering  of  the  frosted  shrouds — 

The  quaking  timbers  torn  and  reft. 
The  signal-gun  fired  suddenly 

Far  out  across  that  silent  sea; 
The  wasted  mariner,  whose  voice 
Woke  neither  echo  nor  replies, 

The  frantic  prayer  tossed  pleadingly 
Across  the  dark  sepulchral  deep, 
Whose  dungeon  doors  their  prisoners  keep. 


148       poems  of  the  western  land. 

What  marvel  that  the  tress  of  gold 

Blanched  through  those  withering  years  to  snow? 
That  down  athwart  the  midnight  watch, 

The  hand  whose  touch  had  thrilled  thee  so 
Should  beckon  to  thee  through  the  haze 
Of  that  impenetrable  space, 

That  trackless  waste  of  frozen  sea, 

Whence  he  might  never  come  to  thee. 

And  so  with  reverent  heads  we  stand 

Within  the  vaulted  minster's  gloom, 
And  listen  while  the  organ  rolls 

Its  dirges  to  the  fretted  dome; 
Knowing  that  hand  is  clasping  hand 

Somewhere  amid  the  boundless  spheres, — 
That  free,  disfranchised  souls  have  leaped 

The  frozen  barriers  of  the  years, 
And  thus,  'mid  orison  and  prayer 

Our  souls  sing  songs  of  praise  for  thee, 
Sweet  lady  of  the  silver  hair! 


MIS CELL ANE  O  US  POEMS.  149 


IN  A  UG  URA  TED.  * 

Bonfires  ablaze  on  the  hill-tops, 

Banners  afloat  on  the  towers, 
Flags  sweeping  high  from  the  mastheads 

That  guard  these  proud  waters  of  ours. 

Bells  clanging  loud  from  the  steeples, 
Cannons  a-boom  from  the  height, 

Wakening  the  echoing  mountains, 
With  tasseling  forests  bedight. 

Son  of  the  people,  walk  bravely, 
Up  through  the  discord  and  din — 

Up  through  the  warring  of  factions, 
That  shake  our  far  borders  again. 

Up  through  the  dust  of  the  highways, 
Up  through  the  darkling  of  storms; 

Up  through  the  crashing  of  tempests, 
Filling  the  land  with  alarms. 

Bravely, — though  here  'mong  the  marbles 
Crowding  this  Appian  way, 

■  Hayes,  1877. 


150  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Martyrs  have  trodden  the  causeway 
Thou  hast  been  treading  to-day. 

Bravely, — walk  bravely  and  grandly, 
Guardsman,  whose  watch  must  be  kept 

Lone  on  the  ramparts  of  nations, 
By  cyclones  and  hurricanes  swept. 

Wrap  thy  storm-mantle  about  thee, 
Stand  with  thy  breast  to  the  blast : 

Let  thy  footsteps  be  heard  down  the  ages, 
On  the  pavements  that  skirted  the  past. 

And  if  through  the  smoke  of  the  contest 
Thy  turbulent  pathway  should  lie, 

Then  may  cohorts  of  angels  attend  thee, 
And  the  Lord  of  the  Battle  stand  by! 


A  MAN  OF  MARK. 

A  man  of  mark  and  of  force,  you  say, 

Well  skilled  in  the  law's  most  subtle  phases; 

With  an  eye  that  could  scan  in  its  scrutiny 
The  densest  shadows  of  legal  mazes. 

Well  versed  in  the  myths  of  polity, 

With  a  keener  insight  of  men  and  nations: 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  151 

A  quicker  glance  at  the  secret  strings 

That  move  the  factions  in  place  and  station, 

Than  falls  to  the  average  of  men 

Skimming  across  the  world's  horizon; 

And  he  used  for  the  greed  of  his  selfish  soul 
The  quicker  sense  of  his  subtle  vision. 

Well  schooled  in  all  polished  codes  and  creeds 

That  fashion  reads  in  her  liturgy, 
And  playing  with  hearts  as  with  strings  of  beads, 

By  friar  worn  for  a  rosary. 

\  .  \ 

A  man  of  polish  and  grace  of  mien, 

With  courtly  smile  and  with  civic  air; 

But  guileful  and  deep  was  his  soul,  I  ween, 

And  his  life  was  false  as  his  words  were  fair. 

And  yet,  he  kneeled  in  his  cushioned  pew, 

Where  sunshine  glinted  through  frescoed  arches, 

With  face  devout  as  the  sun  looked  on 

Through  many  and  many  weary  marches. 

And  when  the  patriarch,  pleading  late, 

Prayed  for  the  poor  ones  crushed,  and  many, 

His  coin  dropped  heavily  in  the  plate 

With  the  widow's  mite  and  the  poor  man's  penny. 


i52  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

And  no  man  asked  if  the  tithe  were  wrung 

From  orphans  who  sat  with  their  dead  unburied; 

They  only  counted  the  scrip  he  flung 
In  the  silver  salver  the  deacon  carried. 

He  stood  with  the  fathers  of  the  land, 
And  sat  unchallenged  in  highest  places; 

And  watched  with  a  rapt,  devoted  soul, 
The  changing  tides  of  financial  phases. 

And  a  grateful  country  will  carve  his  name 
In  lasting  columns  of  chiseled  granite, 

And  miles  of  plumes  and  sables  wave 

When  he  takes  his  march  to  the  other  planet. 

1878. 


ONLY  A  COMMON  MAN. 

.  # 
Not  deeply  versed  in  the  lore  of  schools, 

Nor  read  in  the  cumbrous  terms  of  sages, 
Nor  yet  a  slave  to  the  servile  rules 

That  have  governed  the  cringing  world  for  ages. 

No  pet  of  fashion,  no  serf  of  creeds; 

No  changeling,  fast  with  the  wild  winds  veering- 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  153 

He  only  wrought  for  the  world's  great  needs, 

And  spoke  true  words  for  the  sad  world,  cheering. 

Yet  on  his  brow,  as  he  came  and  went, 
Men  saw  the  mark  of  nature's  peerage ; 

And  knew  that  it  bore  no  lie  or  feint, 

Or  stamped  the  sands  with  deceitful  mirage. 

He  seemed  to  climb  the  slippery  rounds 
That  false  men  climb  to  a  high  position, 

But  claimed  the  cause  of  the  poor  oppressed, 
And  earth's  cast-aways  as  his  only  mission. 

Too  brave  of  heart  to  sit  aside 

And  see  the  mass  with  their  great  wrongs  wrest- 
ling, 
Too  noble  of  soul  to  strive  for  place, 

With  paltry  men  the  ranks  contesting. 

His  hands  were  brown  with  the  great  world's  work, 
And  his  heart  was  full  of  the  sad  world's  labor; 

But  he  wore  no  title  beside  his  name, 

And  he  claimed  no  empty  badge  or  favor. 

No  marble  stands  on  the  hills  for  him, 
The  ancient  trees  alone  wave  o'er  him; 

But  the  stainless  fame  of  his  noble  deeds 
Has  gone  to  the  other  shore  before  him. 

1878. 


i54  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 


S  WEE  T  EDITH  LEIGH. 

"Past  the  flower  of  her  youth,"  did  you  say  ? 

Her  life  is  a  garden  of  bloom! 
And  along  the  dusty  wayside 

She  scatters  a  soft  perfume. 

You  judge  her  but  as  you  see  her, 

With  her  pallid  cheek  and  brow, 
And  you  know  not  the  grandeur  and  depth  of  soul 

That  slumbers  on  below. 

We  were  mates  in  the  by-gone  summers, 

Sweet  Edith  Leigh  and  I ; 
Together  we  roamed  the  forests, 

And  gathered  the  shells  by  the  sea. 

And  she,  like  a  bird  of  the  tropics, 

With  the  rich  deep  bloom  on  her  cheek, 

Wove  garlands  of  leaves  for  her  sunny  hair, 
And  strings  of  shells  for  her  neck. 

And  talked  in  her  quaint  wild  fashion, 

In  words  that  seemed  to  fall 
Like  the  lingering  rhymes  of  unfinished  songs, 

Or  some  ancient  madrigal. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  155. 

Thus  ever,  with  feet  unstaying, 

Paced  merrily  on  the  years, 
And  we  dreamed  not  that  life  had  courses 

That  were  drenched  with  rains  of  tears. 

Till  one  day  o'er  my  Edith's  threshold 

A  darkening  shadow  fell, 
And  she  roamed  no  more  by  the  sea  with  me, 

Or  the  forest  on  the  hill. 

No  more  by  the  shores  of  the  surging  sea 

Wandered  a  wayward  wight; 
But  a  woman's  soul  loomed  up  in  her  face, 

Born  of  the  pangs  of  a  night! 

For  a  helpless  mother  and  little  ones 

Clung  to  her  stronger  hand, 
And  her  noble  father  slept  in  his  shroud 

Long  leagues  across  the  land. 

Did  she  quail  and  shrink  in  the  tempest — 

Did  she  sway  like  a  broken  reed? 
Did  she  shiver  and  pale  as  the  thunder-cloud 

Broke  over  her  sunny  head? 

No,  but  a  strange  light  deepened 
The  blue  of  her  earnest  eye, 


156  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

And  she  gazed  with  a  far-oft  glance,  unawed, 
Through  the  blank  futurity. 

And  with  calm,  strong  faith  in  her  spirit, 

And  a  sweet  trust  undismayed, 
She  wandered  the  dusty  highways 

Undaunted  and  undismayed. 

Undaunted,  though  thorns  and  brambles 

Her  tired  feet  tortured  so, — 
And  the  roses  forgot  to  blossom 

In  the  paths  where  she  must  go. 

Still  she  gathered  the  gleams  of  sunshine 

With  a  tender  and  trustful  hand, 
For  the  darlings  who  looked  through  their  tear-drops, 

And  could  not  understand 

Why  the  light  of  their  life  must  perish — 

Be  dashed  from  their  sky  at  noon; 
Why  the  bells  must  ring  their  dirges 

When  the  robins  were  all  in  tune. 

Sweet  Edith  Leigh — those  questions 

Rose  stormily  to  her  brain, 
But  she  hushed  them  down,  and  to  her  tasks 

Turned  steadily  again. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  157 

And  when  the  fair  young  mother 

Drooped  pensively,  day  by  day, 
And  the  autumn's  crimson  garland 

On  her  early  coffin  lay, — 

She  folded  the  wee  brood  nestlings' 

With  a  sob  she  durst  not  heave, 
And  the  youth  of  her  life  she  left  behind 

Upon  her  mother's  grave. 

There  were  summers  and  winters  after  that, 

Coming  with  blight  and  bloom, 
When  the  snow-drifts  piled  around  her  door, 

Or  the  forests  were  all  in  tune. 

And  sometimes,  when  worn  with  toiling 

And  chafed  with  life's  hard  extremes, 
The  melodies  of  the  distant  sea 

Came  to  her  in  her  dreams, — 

Came  to  her  with  soothing  murmurs, 

From  out  the  beautiful  years — 
And  she  folded  her  darlings  closer 

And  sang  to  them  through  her  tears. 

There  was  one  who  afar  had  loved  her 
As  one  might  love  a  saint, 


158  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

With  the  strong  and  patient  love  of  years ; 
But  he  uttered  no  complaint — 

Only  watched  her  with  constant  fervor, 

As  one  at  the  outer  gate; 
But  ever  she  said,  "the  work  of  my  life 

Calls  for  me,  and  I  must  wait." 

So  through  the  springs  and  the  autumns  ] 

She  waited, — no  thought  of  self 
Wore  fretful  lines  on  her  beautiful  brow ; 

No  pining  after  wealth 

Made  callous  and  cold  the  chambers 

Of  the  heart  she  held  her  own; 
But  she  bore  her  soul  with  a  regal  grace, 

No  chances  could  dethrone. 

There  were  blossoms  within  her  lattice, 

And  blossoms  within  her  heart — 
And  the  darlings  she  had  nurtured 

Had  grown  to  be  a  part 

Of  her  heart  of  love;  and  when  science 

To  them  threw  wide  its  doors, 
She  was  prouder  than  any  queen  that  walked 

Upon  her  marble  floors! 


MISCELLANEO  US  POEMS.  159 

A  woman  lofty  of  heart  and  soul; 

Of  royal  stock  was  she! 
And  she  filled  up  the  pauses  of  the  years 

With  gentle  ministry. 

"Past  the  prime  of  her  youth,"  did  you  say? 

There's  no  noble  in  all  the  land 
But  might  bow  in  his  stars  and  his  plumes  to  her, 

And  bend  to  her  command! 

1877. 


THE  OLD  MINER'S  TALE. 

Sit  you  down  on  the  sea-shore,  comrade,. 

Down  on  this  rock  by  the  sea — 
Where  the  cormorant  flaps  his  feathers 

And  the  gull  floats  lazily. 

And  I'll  tell  you  the  tale  of  my  life,  boys — 
Of  those  long,  hard  days,  that  are  gone; 

The  tale  that  has  changed  my  locks  to  gray 
Ere  touched  by  the  westering  sun. 

For  six  long  years  in  the  gulches 
I  had  wrestled  hard  with  fate, 


160  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

And  toiled  'mid  the  stern,  unyielding  quartz 
From  early  morn  till  late, 

Till  my  brow  grew  brown  and  dusky, 
And  my  hands  grew  hard  with  toil, 

And  my  heart  grew  heavy  and  lonely 
Thinking  of  home  the  while. 

Thinking  of  home  and  the  dear  ones, 

So  far,  so  far  away; 
Over  the  hills  with  their  purple  light, 

And  over  the  restless  sea. 

And  wondering  whether  the  dear  old  heads, 

Grown  white  as  the  winter's  rime, 
Were  bowed  in  their  evening  prayer  for  me 

At  the  solemn  twilight  time ! 

And  whether  my  brown-eyed  Agnes 

Sat  still  in  the  cottage  door, 
Humming  and  tuning  her  song  toward  the  West, 

While  the  sunbeams  fell  on  the  floor. 

Well!  I  toiled,  as  I  said,  through  the  seasons, 

With  a  sad  heart  all  the  time, 
For  fortune  smiled  on  my  comrades'  path, 

But  she  never  smiled  on  mine — 


MISCELLANE  O  US  POEMS.  161 

Till  one  long  August  afternoon, 

As  I  threw  my  pick  aside, 
A  sunbeam  showed  me  a  vein  of  gold 

Hid  deep  in  the  mountain's  side. 

There  was  never  a  living  footstep  near 

Save  the  vultures  in  the  cliff, 
And  I  bowed  my  head  to  my  father's  God, 

Who  had  pitied  my  lonely  grief. 

And  when  the  rustling  corn  was  ripe 

And  gathered  into  sheaves, 
And  the  proud  magnolia  on  the  winds 

Wasted  her  rosy  leaves, — 

I  wrote  one  day  to  the  fairy  cot 

Afar  on  the  English  shore, 
Where  my  Agnes  sat  'mid  the  clustering  vines 

That  hung  from  the  cottage  door. 

I  told  her  my  life  was  lonely 

In  the  fabled  hills  of  gold; 
For  what  is  wealth  or  pelf  to  a  man 

If  his  heart  grows  frozen  and  old? 

And  I  bade  her,  as  she  loved  me, 
Speed  over  the  blustering  brine, 


162  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

And  I  would  stand  ready  upon  the  shore 
To  welcome  the  ship  o'  the  line, — 

Stand  ready  to  welcome  my  darling, 

Whose  soft  brown  eyes  should  be 
As  a  guardian  star  through  the  night  and  the  storm, 

As  the  light  of  heaven  to  me. 

A  ponderous  seal  of  scarlet 

The  eager  message  bore; 
There  was  wealth  in  its  folds,  unstinted, 

For  the  loved  on  the  further  shore. 

And  I  bade  the  ocean  billows, 

And  the  winds,  as  they  rose  and  fell, 

Bear  it  safely  and  speedily  onward 
To  the  cottage  beneath  the  hill. 

The  months  flew  rapidly  after  that — 

I  was  busy  lining  my  nest; 
The  prettiest  perch  you  could  light  on, 

With  the  mountains  in  the  West — 

And  the  broad  green  sea  before  it, 
With  its  stretches  of  rock  and  sand: 

And  there  I  watched  for  the  sails  that  blew 
Across  from  the  fatherland. 


MISCELLANEO  US  POEMS.  163 

Well,  one  fair  day  in  the  spring-time, 

A  land-bound  trader  brought 
Dispatches  from  a  ship  o'  the  line, 

Just  heading  for  our  port — 

And  a  letter  with  odor  of  roses 

Fell  fluttering  to  my  knee; 
'Twas  a  message  sent  by  my  Agnes, 

Told  sweet  and  tenderly, — 

"Watch  for  me,"  she  said,  "on  the  cliff-tops! 

A  week  from  yesternight 
I  shall  stand  near  the  prow  to  hail  you 

As  the  vessel  heaves  in  sight. 

"Stand  ready  upon  the  shore,  love, 

To  fold  me  in  your 'arms, 
For  your  darling  is  home-sick  and  weary, 

Breasting  the  ocean  storms." 


stood  that  night  on  the  sea-cliffs, 
The  fierce  gales  beat  and  tore: 
And  the  hurricane  clouds  through  the  threatening  sky 
Their  fateful  omens  bore. 

And  afar  in  the  distance  struggling, 
Half  hid  in  the  seething  brine, 


164  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

The  fierce  wind  driving  her  outward, 
Loomed  up  the  old  ship  of  the  line!, 


We  watched  her  with  pale,  worn  faces, 
And  none  of  us  ventured  a  word; 

Could  she  weather  the  gale  and  make  the  port 
With  such  a  sea  aboard? 


When  suddenly  spoke  my  comrade, 

In  a  hoarse,  sepulchral  tone, — 
"The  ship's  a-fire!  you  can  see  the  flame 

From  her  smothering  hatches  blown!" 

Great  God!  how  I  shook  in  my  terror! 

How  I  stretched  my  feeble  hands! 
How  I  called  to  the  maddening  winds  to  veer 

And  drive  her  in  toward  the  land! 

But  ever  onward,  and  onward, 

She  drove  like  a  spectral  thing, 
And  the  stifled  flames  that  had  slept  in  her  hold 

In  the  whirlwind's  breath  took  wing. 

They  clambered  aloft  to  the  rigging, 
They  mounted  the  quivering  shrouds — 

They  climbed  astride  the  giant  mast 
And  jeered  at  the  thunder-clouds ! 


MISCELLANE  O  US  POEMS,  165 

We  launched  a  staunch  boat  seaward 

Amid  the  battling  surf, 
But  the  billows  clenched  her  in  their  teeth 

With  a  hold  that  was  fierce  and  gruff. 

And  the  sturdy  oar  of  oak  I  held 

With  a  wild,  despairing  hold, 
Was  tossed  like  a  feather  from  my  hand 

'Neath  the  crashing  waves  as  they  rolled. 

They  dragged  me  fainting  shoreward, 

Where  the  curlew  made  her  moan, 
And  when  my  wasted  breath  came  back 

That  blazing  ship  was  gone! 

# 
I  stood  all  night  on  the  cliff-top 

And  wildly  spread  my  arms, 

But  my  darling  never  came  back  to  me 

From  out  of  the  ocean  storms! 

1876. 


166  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 


A  DAT  OF  DATS. 

Some  days  are  writ  in  thunder — some  in  peace; 

Some  leave  their  trail  along  the  dim  horizon 
In  cloven  lightnings,  and  the  mad  winds  shriek 

Like  shrouded  demons  from  their  nether  prison. 

And  some  are  painted  with  the  tender  brush 
That  touched  the  skies  of  Eden,  azure  tinted, 

As  where  the  clouds  their  carmine  banners  toss 
O'er  Alpine  valleys,  where  the  sunsets  fainted. 

'Tis  such  a  day  of  days  my  soul  recalls, 

And  on  its  witching  splendor  loves  to  ponder ; 

A  day  that  lights  with  stolen  glory  all 

The  rugged  passes  of  the  highways  yonder. 

With  skies  that  toned  their  ardent  flashes  down 
With  the  soft  mists  of  dim  October  hazes, 

Flooding  with  purple  tints  the  forests  o'er, 

Where  the  hushed  birds  sang  whisperingly  their 
praises. 

About  my  feet  the  painted  leaves  were  heaped — 
Amber  and  ruby,  chrysolite  and  golden ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  167 

And  both  my  eager  hands  the  treasures  heaped 
Like  gold  from  eastern  Bashaw's  coffers  olden. 

I  sat  enthroned  upon  a  jagged  cliff, 

Full  long  ago  deserted  by  the  eagle ; 
Eaglets  and  eyrie  their  old  perch  had  left, 

But  near  their  roost,  with  wealth  of  banners  regal 

Floating  above  me,  sat  I  through  the  hours 
Of  that  long  peerless  day  in  Indian  summer; 

Nor  heard  the  strangled  whispers  of  the  wind 

O'er  the  deep  seas,  dread  winter's  wild  forerunner. 

Beyond  me  lay  the  lake— the  dreamy  lake; 

Cliff-sheltered  Winnebago,  where  the  spirits 
Of  her  lone  forest  children  walk  and  chafe, 

Amid  the  crags  their  sires  did  once  inherit. 

I  sat  expectantly,  and  soon  beneath 

And  round  me  swept  the  ghosts  of  painted  war- 
riors ; 
Each  in  his  wampum-belt  and  heron's  plume, 

Sought  out  their  olden  caves,— the  ancient  quarriers 

Who  delved  amid  those  rocks  'neath  the  dim  moons 
Of  by-gone  centuries,  looked  up  and  questioned 

My  right  to  hold  the  limestone  precipice,  1 

Among  the  boulders  of  their  rocky  bastion. 


168  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

I  stretched  to  them  my  eager  hands  and  said, — 
"Now  hold  ye!   Rest  your  bows  and  let  us  reason! 

Give  up  the  musty  archives  of  your  dead, 
And  tarry  ye,  but  for  a  little  season! 

"Tell  me  the  mystery  of  yon  battle-field,  * 

Where  dead  men's  bones  lie  tangled  in  the  plough- 
share. 

How  many  ages  long  has  been  their  sleep? 
And  wherefore  met  they  in  barbaric  warfare? 

"Which  of  you  'neath  the  elm-tree,  by  the  lake, 
Lit  up  the  council-fire  with  hemlock  torches? 

And  called  the  ranks  of  feathered  warriors  back 
From  the  lone  forest's  ambuscade  and  marches? 

"Why  gathered  not  at  midnight  watch  your  hosts 
To  wrest  from  alien  Goths  those  lone  mounds  yon- 
der, 

When  the  long  silence  of  your  heroes  dead 

The  iron-horse  woke  with  its  unearthly  thunder?" 

Long  waited  I  upon  my  craggy  perch 

For  voice  or  answer — but  there  came  no  whisper; 
Onry  the  pheasant  from  her  shy  retreat, 

Conning  so  low  her  plaintive  evening  vesper. 


*  The  ancient  battle-field  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs,  on  the 
east  shore  of  lake  Winnebago. 


MISCELLANE  OUS  P  OEMS.  169 

The  squirrel  chipper ed  from  her  nutting  tree, 
Where  her  sage  mate  in  monotones  she  chided, 

And  through  the  purple  mists  beneath  my  feet 
The  airy  hosts  of  painted  sachems  glided 

In  still  battalions;  while  all  alone 

I  sat  upon  my  throne  of  ferns  and  mosses, 

Invoked  the  spirits  of  the  ages  gone, 

And  watched  the  Winnebago  where  she  tosses! 


HALLELUJAHS  ON  THE  HIMALAYAS. 

"There  shall  be  an  handful  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  s 
and  the  fruit  thereof  shall  shake  like  Lebanon." 

There  was  terror  on  the  Ganges, 

And  our  palsied  heart  stood  still, 
For  the  demon-gods  of  Burmah 

Sa  t  enthroned  on  every  hill; 
And  the  day  was  dim  with  horror, 

And  the  night  was  black  with  woe, 
And  each  wind  bore  moans  and  curses 

O'er  the  sultry  plains  below. 

We  were  but  an  handful  scattered 
O'er  that  fateful  land  of  doom, 


170  POEMS  OE  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

And  leagues  and  leagues  of  ocean 
Stretched  on  'twixt  us  and'  home ; 

And  we  looked  across  the  billow, 
But  neither  sail  nor  spar! 

And  the  chariots  of  Jehovah 
We  discerned  not  yet  afar. 

Then  we  gazed  upon  the  mountains 

Frowning  gloomily  and  grand, 
Those  ramparts  of  the  ages 

Forged  round  that  scorching  land; 
And  we  said,  our  great  God  reigneth 

Above  the  earthquake's  shocks, 
And  he  builds  up  "his  defences 

In  munitions  of  the  rocks." 

So  we  hied  us  to  the  fastness 

Of  those  solemn  heights  serene, 
And  with  great  keys  of  the  ages 

Our  strong  God  locked  us  in; 
And  with  massive  time-worn  boulders 

Our  lonely  portals  barred, 
And  battalions  of  the  angels 

He  left  to  be  our  guard! 

And  through  days  and  nights  uncounted 

We  trod  the  mountain  heath. 
With  the  snowy  peaks  above  us 


MISCELLANE O  US  POEMS.  1 71 

And  the  jungles  stretched  beneath — 
Where  the  air  is  dank  and  heavy 

With  a  pestilential  breath, 
And  the  valley  of  the  Gunga 

Is  the  vestibule  of  death. 

And  the  raven  came  and  fed  us 

In  that  silent  mountain-keep, 
While  the  scimetar  and  tulwar 

Crashed  round  us  in  our  sleep; 
And  we  knew  our  brethren  slumbered 

All  along  the  Goomtee's  waves, 
And  we  amid  the  passes 

Stood  to  guard  each  other's  graves ! 

Still  we  looked  into  the  faces 

Of  the  mothers,  white  with  fear, 
And  we  said,  "our  Lord  Jehovah 

Is  a  mighty  man  of  war;" 
And  we  listened  on  the  night-wind, 

And  we  listened  on  the  breeze, 
For  the  rustling  of  his  banners 

Far  across  the  foreign  seas. 

And  when  the  boom  of  cannon 

Came  thundering  up  the  coast, 

And  through  the  teak  and  banyans 

Came  the  surging  oi  the  hosts — 
11 


1 72  POEMS  OF  THE  WES7ERN  LAND. 

And  the  Christians'  flag  unfolded 

O'er  the  minarets,  all  amaze; 
Then  we  woke  the  Himalayas 

With  a  solemn  song  of  praise. 

And  those  hallelujahs  echoed 

Ever  since  from  hill  to  hill, 
And  o'er  demon-haunted  India 

Are  grandly  surging  still ; 
And  the  handful  on  the  mountains 

Has  spread  across  the  plain, 
And  our  Christ  shall  rule  the  Orient 

From  the  mountains  to  the  main. 


[A  small  remnant  of  missionaries  escaped  to  Nynee  Tal 
upon  the  Himalayas  during  the  feaiful  Sepoy  massacre  in 

1857] 


AT  HALF-MAST. 

The  old  bell  shakes  the  Minster  tower, 
The  harbor  flags  at  half-mast  stand— 

The  grenadiers  march  two  and  four, 
With  sable  steeds  caparisoned; 

Toll  forth,  O  bells!  the  message  sent 
Throughout  your  creaking  battlements, 


MISCELLANE  O  US  POEMS.  173 

For  a  prince  within  the  chancel  dim  * 
Lies  waiting, — bear  the  exile  in ! 

He  may  not  sleep  beneath  the  aisles 

Where  his  ambitious  sires  have  trod, — 
The  land  that  watched  his  schemes  and  toils 

Spurns  him  from  off  his  native  sod; 
The  outcast's  brand  is  on  his  brow, 

Hollow  his  grave  and  lay  him  low ; 
Let  alien  bells  their  dirges  ring 

Where  a  son  of  France  lies  slumbering. 

Came  there  no  whisper  to  the  ear? 

No  echo  of  the  distant  sea, 
Whose  rocky  isle  alone— afar, 

Wakes  up  the  ghosts  of  memory? 
Proud  race,  of  thought  and  purpose  high — 

By  nature  formed  to  do  and  dare, 
With  plans  all  unachieved,  that  lie 

Smothered  upon  your  early  bier. 

After  the  clangor  and  the  storm, 

After  the  breakers  and  the  surge, 
Ye  slumber  well,  where  war's  alarms 

Shall  haunt  ye  never  on  the  verge 
Of  that  unfathomable  life, 

Where  prince  and  peasant  meet  alike! 

*  Napoleon  III.,  buried  at  Chiselhurst,  England. 


174  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 


IN  THE   WILDERNESS. 

David  Livingstone  died  in  the  heart  of  Africa,  four- 
teen  hundred  miles  from  the  coast.  His  faithful 
black  servant  guarded  his  body  till  it  was  safely 
f  laced  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

Build  me  a  hut  'mong  the  tangled  brake, 

'Neath  the  lonely  pampa's  shade ; 
For  my  foot  grows  tired,  and  my  heart  grows  faint, 

And  the  dark  is  overhead! 

For  long,  long  nights  I  have  lain  and  watched 

For  a  breeze  from  the  distant  sea, 
But  only  the  breath  of  the  wilderness 

Is  borne  again  to  me. 

And  when  in  my  feverish  dreams  I  hear 

The  coast-bells  ringing  fast , 
I  wake,  and  'tis  only  the  ostrich's  scream 

Through  the  desert  flitting  past. 

And  the  same  wild  wish  is  in  my  heart, 

And  the  same  faint,  helpless  cry — 
"Let  me  see  the  cliffs  of  my  childhood's  home, 

And  its  green  graves,  ere  I  die !" 


MISCELLANEO  US  POEMS.  175 

But  the  night  came  quick,  and  the  night  grew  long 

In  that  weird  and  sultry  wild, 
And  the  eye  of  the  chief  was  closing  fast, 

Like  the  eye  of  a  weary  child. 

And  with  many  and  many  a  league  to  pass 

'Twixt  him  and  the  surging  sea, 
They  folded  the  sun-browned  hands,  at  last, 

Of  our  hero,  silently! 

*  *  * 

Toll,  Minster  bells! 
From  your  turrets,  grey  and  deep; 
For  a  prince  of  the  world  has  passed  away — 
Let  him  sleep ! 

Let  him  sleep  'mong  the  lords  of  story, 
'Neath  the  heavy  arches'  gloom; 
Through  the  palms  and  the  towering  banyans, 
They  bear  him  home. 

Room  for  him  'mong  the  marbles 
Of  your  cloisters,  dim  and  grand; 
But  his  pillar  is  reared  where  the  tamarinds  rise, 
In  that  lonely  land! 

1876. 


176  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 


MICHAEL  ANGELAS  LAST  WORK. 

With  whitened  brow,  o'er  which  the  snow  had  tram- 
pled 

For  four  score  years  and  ten,  the  artist  sat, 
And  the  dim  halo  of  his  incarnations 

About  his  lonely  studio  lingered  yet. 

Beyond  him,  where  the  yellow-crested  Tiber 
Stretched  through  the  land  in  deviating  line, 

Stood  the  proud  dome  his  lofty  thought  had  molded, 
Set  high  upon  the  battlements  of  time.  * 

And  the  world  waited  with  a  restless  fervor 
For  one  more  prophecy  of  art  enshrined — 

For  one  more  legacy  to  leave  the  ages,  / 

Upon  the  speaking  canvas  boldly  lined. 

Men  said,  "the  work-days  of  the  seer  are  over, 
The  unanswering  canvass  seeks  his  touch  in  vain; 

And  the  great  dream  for  which  we  long  have  waited 
Sleeps  on  unwrought  within  his  misty  brain." 

But  o'er  the  heavy  arch  that  spanned  his  cloister, 
Across  the  frescoed  roof  a  vision  flashed ; 

*  St.  Peter's. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  177 

And  the  dim  eye  grew  deep  with  inspiration, 
And  the  wan  fingers  o'er  the  canvass  dashed 

The  lights  and  shades  in  wondrous  combinations, 
Touched  with  the  azure  of  the  sunset's  glow ; 

And  waiting  Rome  said  in  her  admiration, 
"The  angels  guide  the  old  man's  pencil  now." 

Along  the  Appian  way,  'mid  tombs  of  princes, 
His  carved  sarcophagus  long  ready  stood  in  state; 

Yet  still  he  sat  and  wrought  beside  his  easel — 

"The  days    are  short,"  he  said,  "the  grave  must 


And  so  among  the  mists  of  evening  gathering 
Deeper  and  deeper  o'er  his  threshold  store, 

The  old  man  plied  his  work  among  the  shadows, 
Far  through  the  midnight  watches,  all  alone. 

No  weak  decrepitude  of  soul,  that  clouded 

His  last  grand  days  with  sad  obscureness  o'er; 

He  only  laid  his  pencil  down  at  evening 
To  take  it  up  upon  the  further  shore. 

1877. 


178  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 


THE  OLD-TIME  MINSTRELS. 

We  hear  their  songs  go  sweeping  through  the  land, 
From  fisher's  cot  to  prince's  marbled  pile; 

And  the  old  minsters  ring  them  soft  and  low 
From  mossy  towers,  through  dimly  frescoed  aisle. 

But  whither  went  the  singers?     Where  away 
Died  out  the  matchless  voice  that  thrilled  us  so? 

Ask  the  old  hills,  that  on  their  summits  grey 
Catch  the  red  sunsets  as  they  come  and  go ! 

Where  are  the  harps  that  through  the  olden  days 
Caught  gladsomely  your  inspirations  up, 

And  tossed  them  to  the  strugglers  on  life's  highways, 
With  gleams  of  beauty  and  with  words  of  hope? 

Earth's  sagamen  and  soothsayers,  whose  thought 
Roamed  the  tall  cliffs  where  the  proud  eagle  built, 

The  echo  of  whose  runes  the  listening  years 
Along  their  musty  corridors  have  felt, — 

Can  souls  so  glorious  fade  like  myths  away? 

Their  dreams  unfinished  and  their  words  half  said? 
And  all  the  heritage  they  leave  to  us 

The  mold  and  mosses  on  their  coffin-lid? 


MIS CELL ANEO  US  POEMS.  179 

Perchance  if  but  our  keener  sense  might  catch 

The  floating  sound-waves,  which  the  spheres  beset, 

Somewhere  amid  the  upper  ether  stranded, 
Their  thrilling  melodies  are  ringing  yet. 

1878. 


SLEEPING. 

One  of  these  crimson  autumn  days 

We  shall  be  sleeping  among  the  hills, 
Where  the  midnight  wind  on  its  harp-strings  plays, 

And  the  lonely  wood-bird's  echo  thrills. 
Sad  eyes  above  us  may  watch  and  weep, 

Grieved  hearts  all  round  us  may  pant  and  swell, 
Restlessly  o'er  us  earth's  tumults  may  sweep, 

But  we  shall  have  rest,  and  be  still — be  still, — 

Under  the  shade  of  the  solemn  pine, 

Where  the  pale  violets  in  spring-time  are,     * 
When  the  hazels  are  brown  in  the  nutting  time, 

And  the  tall  vines  clamber — it  matters  not  where ! 
It  matters  not  where,  so  the  weary  brow 

Shall  throb  and  flutter,  and  flush  no  more, 
So  the  spirit  that  chafes  and  tosses  so 

Shall  be  hushed  and  calmed,  and  its  moans  be  o'er. 


180  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

We'll  bid  the  wild  weeds  tangle  and  creep, 

And  the  snows  lie  thickly  the  long  winter  through; 
And  even  the  tempest  to  rattle  and  sweep, 

So  they  bring  but  a  hush  to  the  sleepers  below. 
And  thickly,—  blow  thickly  the  red  autumn  leaves 

Above  the  blue  violets  and  under  the  pines, 
Wherever  the  cradle  our  earth-mother  gives 

To  her  tired  children    sleeping   the  long  twilight 
time! 


THE   WITCHES  ARE   WALKING  THE 
WILD-WOODS  AGAIN. 

The  witches  are  walking  the  wild-wood  again, 

Down  deep  in  the  forest  of  pines, 
Where  the  great  goblin  oak-tree  stands   lord  of  the 
glen 

And  where  the  winds  sigh  to  the  vines. 

Old  winter  wrapped  round  him  his  mantle  of  snow 
And  marched  with  his  vanguard  at  last, 

And  the  jay-bird  peeped  out  through   the  tamarack 
bough 
And  screamed  his  farewell  as  he  passed. 


MISCELLANE  O  US  POEMS,  181 

And  quick  from  their  coverts,  the  wild  winds  know 
where — 

In  highland,  or  hollow,  or  hill, 
The  weird  forest  witches  came  wandering  there 

In  the  old  woods,  so  solemn  and  still. 

They  peeped  in  the   stream  that  had  muttered  and 
moaned 
As  though  summer  was  never  to  be, 
And  the   light,  laughing   waves   started   off  with  a 
bound, 
And  chased  merrily  on  to  the  sea. 

The  brown  tassels  came  to  the  larch-boughs  again 

And  the  fur  to  the  hickory  buds, 
And  the  poplar  smiled  forth  in  a  garland  of  green, 

For  the  watches  were  walking  the  woods. 

The  oriole  down  in  the  clusters  of  cane 

Bethought  him  again  of  his  nest, 
And  the  whip-poor-will  sang  'mong  the  hazels  a^ain 

When  the  sun  had  gone  down  in  the  west. 

And  dark  brows,  that  all  the  long  winter  had  kept 

Their  shadows  of  sadness  and  care, 
Laughed  out  to  the  glad  summer  sunshine  that  swept 

When  the  witches  were  wandering  there. 

1856. 


182  POEMS  OF  THE  WES7ERN LAND. 


SUNDERED. 

We  have  been  friends !  we  have  been  friends 
All  through  the  wintry  weather ; 

When  skies  looked  black,  and  tempests  came, 
Still  we  were  friends  together. 

But  now  the  grasses  seed  and  bloom 

In  the  trysting-place  of  yore, 
And  ye  might  know  by  the  wild-bird's  tune 

That  we  are  friends  no  more. 


1854. 


BENEATH  THE  ELMS. 

O,  golden  haze  of  the  summer  days, 
That  glints  with  glory  my  pathway  over, 
And  forests  that  murmur  like  distant  seas, 
And  clover-fields,  peopled  with  honey-bees — 
With  patches  of  sunshine  and  moonshine  flung 
At  sundown  the  silver  waves  among. 

Why  waketh  no  murmur  within  my  soul 
To  the  gladsome  echoes  that  break  and  roll 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS.  iif 

Through  the  haughty  oaks  and  the  cloistered  pine, 
Where  sleepeth  the  beautiful  rhythm  and  rhyme 
That  my  spirit  caught  in  the  olden  time? 

When  a  hymn  was  said,  and  a  psalm  was  sung 

By  every  voice  as  it  swept  along, 

From  the  tempest  that   came   with   its  shrieks  and 

moans 
To  the  brooklet  that  muttered  among  the  stones; 
And  a  solemn  utterance  seemed  to  thrill 
The  chords  of  my  wakened  soul  at  will. 

I  sit  where  the  olden  beeches  meet, 

And  their  golden  leaves  are  about  my  feet; 

I  sit  and  wait  for  the  old-time  song 

To  murmur  these  autumn  aisles  along; 

But  only  the  jay-bird  in  the  wood 

Pipes  up  his  lonely  interlude! 

Spirit  of  song!  I  conjure  thee  back! 
To  thy  ancient  nooks— to  thy  olden  track; 
For  my  soul  is  weary,  and  fretted,  and  sore, 
With  the  surf-beats  chafing  upon  life's  shore — 
With  the  storm-notes  chorusing  surly  and  dim, 
Their  sullen  base  to  my  beautiful  hymn . 


i84  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 


DOWN    WHERE    THE   WATER   LILIES 
GROW. 

Mind  you  the  place  where  the  water-lilies  grow,  love, 

Mind  you  the  place  where  the. water-lilies  grow? 
Where  the  willows  hang  their  tassels,  and  the  feath- 
ery fern-leaves  blow,  love, 
And  the  light  wing  of  the  blue-fly  is  skimming  to 
and  fro? 

'Twas  there  that  I  repeated  the  often-whispered  story, 
The  often- whispered   story  that  the  ages  love  to 
hear ; 
And  the  alders  bent  to  listen ,  and  the  oak-trees  grey 
and  hoary, 
And  the  oriole  and  the  robin,  from  their  nesting- 
places  near. 

x\nd  you  promised  in  the  autumn,  when  the  sunset 
tinged  the  beeches, 
To  sit  within  my  cottage  door  and  sing  me  olden 
songs ; ' 
And  I  waited  for  you,  darling,  all  through  the  wintry 
weather, 
And  I  wondered  why  the  morning  and  the  mid- 
night were  so  long. 


MISCELLANEOUS  P OEMS.  185 

Sere  grew  the  leaves,  and  a  shadow  came  between 
us — 
A  lonesome  shadow,  resting  around  our  trysting- 
tree ; 
And    though   the    yellow    glory   has   fallen   on    the 
beeches, 
Yet  the  oceans  and  the  mountains  have  sundered 
you  and  me. 


WHEN  THE  SUMMER  COMES  AGAIN. 

When  the  summer  comes  again, 

There  will  be  green  graves  and  lonely, — 
Little  mounds  upon  the  hill, 
Guarded  by  the  hazels  only ! 
Weedy  sods,  all  hallowed  made, 
Where  the  last  year's  red  leaves  strayed. 

When  the  summer  comes  again, 

There  will  be  old  trysts  forgotten ; 
Vows  that  have  been  pledged  in  vain, 
Fondly  spoke,  but  lightly  broken ; 
Hearts  that  once  beat  warm  together 
Frozen  in  the  summer  weather! 


1 86  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND}, 


When  the  summer  comes  again, 

There  will  be  bright  visions  shaded — 
Hopes  that  beacon-lights  have  been 
From  the  ocean  reefers  faded; 
Stars,  that  wore  a  glory  round  them, 
Paler  now  than  when  we  found  them  \ 

When  the  summer  comes  again, 

There  will  be  old  haunts  forsaken — 
Cherished  nooks  in  grove  and  glen, 
Whence  the  spells  have  all  been  taken, 
Save  when  dream)7  memories  wander 
'Mong  the  oaks  and  poplars  yonder! 


MY  HOUSEHOLD  CHOIR. 

Sing  to  me,  birds  of  mine, 
From  out  your  perches  'neath  the  household  tree ; 

Sing  to  me  snatches  of  some  joyous  rhyme, 
Some  grand  old  burst  of  solemn  harmony. 

Sing  to  me !  let  your  voices 
Keep  rhythm  with  the  waves  that  roll  below, 

While  every  forest  chorister  that  warbles 
Sends  echoes,  from  the  oak-trees  as  they  blow. 


MISCELLANE  O  US  POEMS.  187 

Sing  to  me  some  old  psalm — 
Some  household  ballad,  or  familiar  hymn, 
Whose  inspirations  shall  my  spirit  calm 
From  its  wild  turbulence — and  soothe  again. 

For  I  am  tired  to-day — 
Tired  and  o'erwearied  with  the  toils  of  life; 

Counting  its  losses  and  defeats,"  and  only 
Longing  too  eagerly  to  quit  the  strife . 

Sing  to  me,  birds  of  mine, 
Sing  me  glad  songs,  in  voices  sweet  and  cheery, 

Of  "Eden  shores,"  or  "glorious  Morning-land;" 
Of  "Rest,  sweet  rest,"  awaiting  all  the  weary. 

Sing  me  how  "homeward-bound 
The  steady  Pilot  standeth  at  the  wheel;" 

How  'mong  our  doubts,  and  fears,  and  griefs, 
The  pitying  Father  "doeth  all  things  well," 

How  in  the  "land  of  rest," 
Upon  the  sands  that  skirt  the  great  forever, 

There  we  shall  meet  "the  loved  ones  gone  before 
us," 
When  safely  o'er,  we  "Gather  at  the  River." 

1876. 


1 88  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 


THAT  COTTAGE  'MONG  THE  CEDARS. 

A  low-roofed  cottage,  hidden  most 

'Neath  broad-ieaved  vines,  that  twist  and  tangle, 
Where  April  swallows  'neath  the  eaves 

In  mystic  foreign  accents  wrangle ; 
Where  to  their  quaint  nests  hid  about 

Strays  many  a  last  year's  brown-winged  builder, — 
And  bees  flit  cheery  in  and  out 

'Mid  straggling  branches  that  bewilder. 
And  that  small  cot  almost  forgot 

'Mong  cedar  boughs  and  clambering  roses, 
Sweet  music  murmurs  round  the  spot 
*    At  evening  time  when  daylight  closes. 

And  when  the  winds  in  petulance 

Sweep  through  the  old  trees,  blossom-laden, 
A  perfumed  snow-storm  flecks  the  grass, 

Sweet  as  from  spicy  groves  of  Eden. 
The  purple  grapes  in  autumn-time   • 

Hang  down  in  many  a  heavy  cluster, 
And  to  the  feast  the  golden-breast, 

And  lark,  and  oriole  gaily  muster. 
And  that  sweet  spot,  almost  iorgot 

'Mid  cedar  boughs  and  clambering  roses, 


MISCELLANEO  US  POEMS.  1 89 

Sweet  music  murmurs  round  the  spot, 
At  evening-time,  when  daylight  closes. 

And  there,  in  summer's  golden  prime, 

When  fresh  sweet  grasses  lay  in  wind-rows, 
A  sunny  nestling  bird  of  mine 

Took  perch  within  those  vine-wreathed  windows, 
And  twined  white  blossoms  in  her  hair, 

And  sang  sweet  songs  in  gentle  measures; 
And  quaintly  decked  her  sylvan  nest 

With  rustic  art  and  wildwood  treasures. 
And  that  sweet  spot  almost  forgot 

'Mid  cedar-boughs  and  clambering  roses, — 
May  storms  sweep  never  o'er  the  spot 

Where  sings  my  bird  as  evening  closes. 

1878. 


HARPS  OF  HOME. 

Tune  me  the  harps  of  home,  minstrels  of  mine ; 
Send   some  grand   chorus   o'er   the    mute   strings 
sweeping! 
Some  glorious  anthem,  or  some  tender  rhyme, 
In  thrills  along  my  slumbering  pulses  leaping, 
With  all  the  ecstasy  of  olden  time, 
Tune  me  the  harps  of  home,  minstrels  of  mine! 


190  POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

Tune  me  the  harps  of  home,  here  in  the  watch 

Of  the  still  twilight,  with  the  moonlight  falling, 
Halting  awhile  amid  the  rugged  march, 

Life's  bugle-notes  far  in  the  distance  calling; 
Strike  up,  my  bards,  some  ancient  battle  hymn 
Before  the  morning  wakes  to  fight  again. 

Some  echo  that  shall  linger  sweet  and  long, 

A  fresh  impetus  to  my  tired  heart  bringing, 
Like  the  free  cadence  of  a  mountain  song, 
That  some  glad  bird  upon  the  air  is  flinging, 
Tossing  aloft  the  echoes  that  must  roll 
In  jubilant  peans  on  from  soul  to  soul ! 

1874. 


WILL  THE  SUNSHINE  COME? 

Will  the  sunshine  come  when  the  storms  are  gone, 
And  the  spirit  wakes  up  from  sorrow? 

Will  the  heart  grow  light  when  the  dark  to-night 
Is  forgot  in  the  bright  to-morrow? 

I  know  that  the  wing  of  the  prisoned  bird 

Can  bound  from  the  cage  as  free 
As  though  it  had  roamed  where  the  forests  stirred 

Their  leaves  by  the  heaving  sea. 


MISCELLANEO  US  POEMS.  191 

But  can  the  heart  that  has  worn  the  chain 

So  heavily  and  so  long, 
Tune  its  sad  harp  to  wake  again 

In  a  glad  and  joyous  song? 

Will  the  sunshine  come  when  the  storms  are  gone, 
And  the  spirit  wakes  up  from  sorrow  ? 

Will  the  heart  grow  light  when  the  dark  to-night 
Is  forgot  in  the  bright  to-morrow? 

1858. 


TRA  VEL-  WORN. 

And  thus  the  days  troop  on — my  days  of  leisure, 
Whose  sunrise  mocked  me  with  its  fairy  haze, 

With  golden  halos  beaming  o'er  the  heather — 
With  peans  of  song  and  periods  of  praise. 

With  promised  pauses  in  the  weary  marches, 
With  gusts  of  inspiration  from  afar; 

With  soothing  hushes  'mid  life's  busy  clamor, 
Borne  in  amid  its  strange  discordant  jar. 

But  all  fruitionless,  with  hurrying  footsteps 
Flit  the  tired  years,  like  spectral  fleets  away, 


i92         POEMS  OF  THE  WESTERN  LAND. 

With  jeering  shadows  mocking  o'er  the  mountains 
Of  summer  isles,  and  restful  calms  where  lay 

My  fair  ideal,  locked  in  groves  sequestered — 
Shut  in  from  all  the  hurry  and  the  strife; 

From  all  the  turmoil  and  the  petulant  worries 
Of  this  uneasy  scene  that  we  call  life. 

Oh,  for  a  moon  of  calm  and  hushful  quiet, 

Where  the  o'erwearied  soul  fresh  wing  might  take ; 

Where  the  hot  pulses  might  forget  their  fever 
Listening  to  ripples  from  the  waves  that  break 

Upon  the  cooling  coastland,  with  the  breezes 
That  sweep  from  labyrinths  of  pine  and  fir ; 

Where  the  grand  canticles  of  ancient  ocean 
Might  rise  in  mighty  swells,  above  the  jar 

Of  all  life's  shattered  strings,  drowning  the  clatter 
That  chafes  our  souls  and  wears  the  fretted  chords ; 

And  strangles  in  their  birth  the  inspirations 

That  thought  might  clothe  in  grand,  heroic  words. 

1878. 


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